


Getting Back to Normal

by iulia_linnea



Series: The Verges and Variations Cycle [5]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-23
Updated: 2012-12-22
Packaged: 2017-11-22 02:05:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 47,393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/604614
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iulia_linnea/pseuds/iulia_linnea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Attempts are made at Hogwarts to restore the equilibrium disrupted by the war.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prolegomenon

**Author's Note:**

> Follows Getting Letters in public. Originally posted on 17 November 2003 and completed on 24 March 2004.

When Severus had first attempted to reach Harry's thoughts, he had encountered a violent, freezing storm of sensation; her mind was in a state of chaos. It had been impossible to remain. That had been what it was like in the first several weeks after she had destroyed Voldemort.

Eventually, Charlie had returned to Romania, but a Weasley came by to check on Harry once a day. Sometimes that Weasley _was_ Charlie, but most often it was Ginny, Fred, George, or Molly. 

Albus had persuaded Sirius to join Remus as a Hogwarts' teacher by the time the school had reopened two months after Voldemort's last attack. This would allow him to be with his lover and his godchild, while also permitting Minerva to rest. 

By this time, the vehement screaming of the "wind" of Harry's mind was only an occasional gust.

Hermione, who was living at Novitiate One in Hogsmeade while looking for a home and continuing to train as a medi-witch and studying with an established haruspex, came to visit her friend each day, looking stern and deliberately cheerful as she related news of her pregnancy's progression.

The rush of Harry's thoughts had become nothing but a whisper by the time Miss Granger had entered her second trimester.

Poppy kept an eye on the former student while steadfastly refusing to permit the many Gryffindor requests to visit the Girl Who Lived to Defeat Voldemort, and she had thwarted the attempt of an unscrupulous journalist to take pictures of the comatose hero, half-squashing the individual when she transfigured into an insect to get away—Skeeter her name was. She was still recovering at St. Mungo's.

Harry's mental emanations had become almost impossible to detect about the time the press and other interested parties had stopped their attempts to circumvent the wards placed around the Infirmary.

After six months, in fact, the Infirmary was actually quiet at times. But it was never empty, for when everyone else had gone to bed, Severus Snape would visit Harry.

Tonight was no different.

"I have just graded the most unimpressive collection of essays on the uses of asphodel that it has ever been my misfortune to read, Miss Potter. When I think of the aptitude toward potion-making—toward basic thinking—displayed by the newest members of House Gryffindor in particular, I am not certain it is within my power to teach these students anything at all. I am _almost_ convinced that I could better bear Mr. Longbottom's presence in my classroom than that of Marcus Cavendish."

Snape stared at Harry's smooth features, pausing in the recount of his day. There was not even a flicker of a reaction. It did, however, please him to see that the young woman did not appear to be having any frightening dreams.

"You are missing the most stoic pregnancy in the history of witches, you know," he said thoughtfully. 

He suspected that he could reach Harry if he would hit upon the right topic. 

"Miss Granger remains firm in her desire to remain alone and in training. Even Alastor Moody has stopped trying to persuade her to leave. Oh, she shows tremendous promise in both her fields, and she seems in good health, but I have to wonder when her indefatigable attitude will make way for her grief. . . . Perhaps she is waiting for the birth of her child. . . . Perhaps she is waiting for her friend to wake up."

_Wake up, Harry_ , Severus thought, reaching into the young woman's mind again. It was like standing in the middle of a field after a long snowfall: silent save for the heaviness of the quiet. _I cannot hear your thoughts, but I know that you must be having some. I_ know _that you are in here._

"And I knew that you'd be here, as well, dear boy," Professor Dumbledore said.

"Headmaster."

"Have you eaten today?"

"Surely you are joking, Albus?"

The other man chuckled. "Dobby is as good as his word, and you _do_ seem to have put on some weight. . . . How is the patient?"

"I cannot reach her."

"It was a great shock to her system."

"So you have said."

"When she's ready, Severus, she'll wake up."

"This is _not_ sleep."

"No, it is a healing coma."

"She could be this way for years."

"She could wake up tomorrow."

Snape turned to look at the older wizard. "Was it worth it?" he spat angrily. 

Albus looked stricken. He was ill-prepared, he had discovered in recent months, to deal with Severus' fury. He thought of the war: Hundreds of people had died, and many more had been wounded, in the final assault on the Ministry, Hogsmeade, Hogwarts, and various towns throughout Britain in Voldemort's push for power. The veil over the magical world had almost been ripped away by the dark wizard's activities. Aurors and Ministry officials were still putting things to rights, and the clamor over Harry's condition, and the condition of the war's other heroes, had yet to diminish because of a disturbing effect of the war. 

Voldemort and his Death Eaters had used wasting magic against the battle mages and other citizens in the fighting, which caused otherwise healthy looking people to take ill and die quite suddenly. These unexpected and bizarre deaths were fueling a terrible panic. There had not yet been a true accounting of the war's damage. Perhaps there never would be.

"Yes, it was worth it."

"If . . . Minerva dies . . . will you still feel that way?"

Albus did not hesitate to respond. "I _will_ , Severus, and she shares my view."

"If Harry dies, I do not . . . I do not know what I will do," Severus admitted, his flare of resentment toward the older wizard cooling as it was dampened by his despair. 

Since his abrupt liberation from the Dark Lord, the Potions master had found that the only thing keeping him from breaking apart was the connection he felt to Harry. If she died, he felt that his only reason for existing would extinguish with her.

_It's not a healthy situation for you—or_ her— _should she awaken._

_But it is certainly an understandable way to feel after what you have endured, old friend_. "Harry is _not_ going to die," Albus said, squeezing his friend's shoulder in reassurance.

Severus flinched at the other wizard's touch. He wasn't in the mood to be reassured. Anger burnt through unwelcome emotion so much better than pity. "I am not as generous as Minerva is, you know."

"Oh?"

"I will _not_ forgive you."

Albus' face fell and he dropped his hand. Severus had not forgiven him for keeping secrets with Harry from him.

"I'll leave you to your vigil," he said, walking slowly away. _I serve the Greater Good_ , he thought. _I must remember that I serve the Greater Good._

It was not the comfort it once had been.

Severus, feeling close to rage again and damning himself for being unable to reign in his emotions, decided to leave, as well. He did not like being near Harry when he was angry. She had absorbed too much that was toxic without having to add his feelings to her burden.

"I will see you tomorrow, Miss Potter. Though I do not know why I bother coming to visit you at all, as you are a woefully inadequate hostess. It does become taxing to carry on a one-sided conversation."

As he left the infirmary, he thought, _Please wake up, please wake up, please wake up_ . . . .

He did not find his personal mantra satisfying, but it was a necessity for him. It prevented him from having to think about what might happen when Harry actually _did_ become conscious.


	2. Chapter One: The Latticework of Absence

She began in a place of battle, captivating spirits from their hosts so that those who lost them would die. At first, these wraiths writhed into a serpentine weapon that she could wield to rip through flesh. But then they asserted their individual wills and slithered everywhere. Around her. Within her. Through her. Black, blue, green, silver, gray—behind her eyes, they interfused into a miasma of fractured hues that formed a coruscating bolus of gore before bleeding into the whiteness of a scream in which drowned the echoes of voices she thought she should know. 

She followed the shriek as if tracing a sharp vein of sound that jangled through her tendons and sinews. She felt confused treading on this decomposing screak. Did she walk on battered bones or sounds embattled? She knew for certain only that the fight was behind her, so she pressed ahead. Eventually, the blackened remains over which she had been stumbling dried and ground to powder under her feet, the horror-struck calls faded into an almost imperceptible hum and then were no more, and she found herself walking in a graveyard. 

Only this necropolis had no markers, no mourners, no memories—the latticework of absence was its sole adornment. 

Embracing the beauty of this emptiness, she stopped her progress and entered the Quiet.

There was ever the crunch of snow under her feet, yet she did not experience cold. Her bewilderment having ebbed into numbness, she felt weary without needing physical rest. In this place, nothing was expected of her, and she looked for nothing because she needed nothing. Because she asked herself no questions, her Self elected to sleep, and she became a shadow in the peace for uncounted moments.

It was when the edges of her form began to blur, began to blend into the rivulets of white that spread out from her as ripples in water, that her curiosity solidified into a coherent question:

"Who am I?"

She heard her voice sharpen even as her limbs focused, but the words fell like snowballs into the echoless void. She put other queries to her environs:

"Where am I?"

"Is there anyone out there? In here? With me?"

"Am I alone?"

The balls of thought collected at her feet as if a cairn for reminiscences never shared. She had retreated into her own tomb, one which she had carved herself, and now all it seemed she could do was create mysteries that died as soon as they were born.

Fear stabbed a hot finger through her heart; she felt it as sharpness, and it gave her courage.

"Good. I don't _want_ softness," she said, and her vocalizations dispersed into the air, leaving no trace of themselves. 

She glared down at the collected frozen queries. 

"I don't _want_ tranquility."

The snowballs melted into visible puddles, slightly blue, and further glaring caused them to boil. She smiled. As the water evaporated, the brown of muddied ground was revealed.

There was a freshness to her happiness that put her in mind of spring. 

"Grass!" she shouted, as a green carpet flowed from the patch of earth she had created.

"Flowers!" she yelled, as the landscape became filled with tall stalks of lavender.

"Trees!" she commanded, and mighty trunks exploded from the earth and stretched powerful branches over her in a canopy of greens and yellows and browns.

She ran, arms outspread, laughing. 

Abruptly, she stopped and hugged herself.

"This is joy," she said, "and I'm really waking up now, aren't I?"

Surveying her demesne and remembering that she was not a god, not even a little one, but not knowing for certain _how_ she knew this, she realized her last question would be answered with a lie if she were to say yes. She could not possibly be conscious—not be so and create the strange meadow in which she found herself. 

Perhaps she would find someone within these boundaries who could explain it to her.

"People!"

But the echo of her own voice was her only answer.

"Well, perhaps I'd better just begin with fruit," she said quietly.

To her delight, plum-colored cherries popped by the cluster into existence all over the trees in her orchard. Trying some, she was surprised that they tasted exactly the way she thought sunshine should taste—a pure, juicy yellow. 

She knew she'd need to spend some time "growing" fruit before she perfected the trick, but was not dismayed. 

"I _do_ like tomatoes, after all."

At this thought, her "cherries" transformed into golden globes, weighing the boughs so that they dipped toward her as if in offering.

"Don't tomatoes grow on bushes?"

~*~

A soft voice grated against the silence of the Infirmary, jarring Severus out of his slumber.

"Heirlooms. . . . Precious. . . . Grow on the ground. Don't _fry . . . never_ stew them."

The Potions master had been waiting for hours to see if his latest concoction would help bring Harry back to the surface of her mind when he had begun to drift, but he had never expected that she would resume consciousness. 

"Miss Potter? _Harry_?" he asked, grabbing her hand and squeezing it. 

He received no response. Opening her eyes, he moved a candle back and forth to see if they would contract or dilate. 

Nothing happened.

"Yellow Perfections? Is that what you mean?"

"Cherries _shouldn't_ taste like sunshine. Cherries are _tart_."

"What about tomatoes? Harry?"

"Perfect the heirlooms. . . . Make more fruit," she mumbled before lapsing into silence once more.

"Was she just _speaking_?" asked Remus Lupin.

Severus looked flustered. "Can you stay with her? Remember what she says? I should make more of—"

"Snape, what did she _say_?"

"Tomatoes. She was talking about the kind of tomatoes we used to eat in the morning. I should get some—I should go make more of _this_ ," he said, picking up a tiny green bottle from the bedside table.

Lupin, whose attention had become fixed on the young woman's serene sleeping countenance, missed Snape's exit, but he remained with Harry for so long that at last he was joined by Sirius.

"Hey, I missed you."

Remus explained the situation, and his lover's face burst into happiness.

"This is tremendous! Maybe she's only _asleep_ , now! Did Severus say—"

"Love, don't get ahead of yourself. Poppy said we might expect Ree to move occasionally, or speak—but this _is_ a good sign."

"We need to talk to her. We need to—"

"Try these. Let her smell them," Severus interrupted, handing Sirius a fat yellow tomato.

The young war hero made no movement that would suggest she even knew the Yellow Perfection was being passed under her nose.

"Well, it is something. It is a start—her speaking—I had just given her another . . . purification potion," Severus explained.

Remus' face hardened. Despite the fact that he knew Ree had taken Snape's blood without realizing it was cursed—though details of said curse had not been forthcoming from either the Potions master or Dumbledore—he still wanted to blame the man for _something_. The depth of the girl's feelings for his old enemy— _their_ old enemy, though Sirius seemed to have forgotten that—made him distrust the man. Sirius watched his partner warily.

"Yes, it _is_ a start, Severus. Thank you. We _both_ thank you for what you've done. Don't we, Remus?"

The werewolf made no answer. Whatever the Potions master had done for Harry, it had not been enough—it should not have been enough—to make the child of his heart, for such is how he had long thought of the girl, sacrifice herself for the man. He needed to hate Severus for what Ree had done. It was the only way he could bear the waiting.

Sirius sighed. "I think it's about time that we had it out, don't you?" he asked, looking into his lover's eyes.

Snape, although seemingly more collected than he had been a moment ago, glanced at Black with trepidation. 

"What do you mean?"

"Don't do this, not here," Remus said, standing.

"Stop," Sirius said firmly, also rising. "Fine, let's repair to the antechamber, shall we?"

Once in the outer room, Sirius said to Snape, "Remus has developed the idiotic belief that you and my godchild were lovers, Severus."

The Potions master drew himself up stiffly and glared dangerously at the other wizards. "How—"

Sirius interrupted him. "I don't believe it. It's ridiculous—but I'd like you to put Remus' mind at ease."

"What you would like, and what I'm prepared to do to satisfy your desires, are two vastly different things, Black."

"After her letter, it's not an unreasonable assumption to make!" spat Remus.

"My . . . relationship with Miss Potter is none of your affair," Severus replied angrily. 

He was not certain if he was more enraged by the accusation that he had taken advantage of Harry, for he knew that was what Lupin truly believed, or by Black's self-assurance on the score that it was impossible for the girl to have . . . esteemed him in that way. In any case, he would not humiliate himself for the comfort of either wizard, no matter that it put at risk the tenuous peace they had managed to construct over the years.

"I am most disappointed in you boys," Minerva McGonagall's precise voice cut through the black emotions swirling about the men.

"Minerva—"

"Hush!" she ordered the Potions master before turning to Remus. "Severus would no more take advantage of a child than _you_ would, Remus Lupin. He spent a great deal of time caring for Ree when you could not, and you shouldn't allow your grief to overwhelm your common sense."

No one said anything.

"As for you, Sirius Black, I don't know why you feel it's outside of the realm of possibility that a young woman, thrown together with an older, striking, knowledgeable man with whom she has no small amount in common might develop a romantic attachment to him." 

She held up her hand to prevent interruption.

"I am _not_ saying that this occurred—Severus wouldn't have permitted it, nor would Albus or I," she lied, "but you shouldn't belittle Severus by making sly asides under the false presumption of calming your partner. You've always teased too cruelly, Sirius—too _recklessly_."

Black hung his head.

Minerva turned to the Potions master, saying, "And _you_ , Severus Snape, you who should know better by now than to treat every perceived slight with vindictive verbal poison—these men are your friends! You don't employ misdirection in your dealings with your friends merely because you feel hurt by them. Remus' fear, though misguided, was grounded in some logic, after all. Ree's letter to you, her behavior toward you—not to mention yours toward her—has caused some talk. As someone who has stood in light of a parent toward the child, of _course_ the man would want that behavior explained."

"Friends? You are calling them my friends?" Severus asked in an incredulous tone.

"If you cannot recognize a friend from an enemy at this point in your life, then Merlin help you." 

" _Merva_ ," Albus Dumbledore's bodiless voice suddenly emanated, though no one seemed to hear it but the Transfiguration professor.

"It's time I was resting," she said testily. "I shall see you gentlemen later at breakfast. _Do_ try to resolve matters amongst yourselves. Feuding professors are bad for the morale of the students."

After the witch had swept from the room, Sirius said, "Well, she still dresses a body down better than anyone—even you, Sev."

"Do _not_ call me by that irritating diminutive."

"Now, now, friends call each other by nicknames, don't they?"

"Who says that we are—"

"Friends?" asked Remus. "I suppose it's not such a remarkable concept—I mean, in the past six months, we've been drunk together more times than I can count. We've fought together—against _others_ —and we," he said, gesturing between himself and Sirius, " _have_ trusted you with Ree—"

"Apparently not!"

"For years," Remus finished, as if he had not noticed the interjection. "Though, perhaps not so much, lately." 

The man sighed heavily before continuing.

"I _do_ apologize, Severus. I think the shock of what happened to her, of knowing that she had closed off part of her life to us—that we—that _I_ couldn't help her . . . ."

_I understand exactly how you feel, Lupin_ , Snape thought, feeling uncomfortable as the other man struggled to marshal his emotions. He allowed most of the scorn to ebb from his usual tone as he asked, "One lecture from Minerva and you realize your error?"

Unexpectedly, the werewolf laughed. 

"We really are idiots, and I don't think we can truly blame it all on the . . . stress. But I apologize for my accusation. Can you forgive me for it?"

Sirius laughed at the stunned expression on Snape's face. 

"Take what you can get, Severus. Remus is _never_ wrong—at least, I've never seen any evidence of it before."

Severus snorted.

Remus glared.

Sirius clapped hands on both of them and said, "So, apologies and forgiveness all around?"

"I accept your apology, Lupin."

"Excellent!" exclaimed Black.

"But this does not mean that I consider either of you to be my fr—"

Remus extended his hand toward Severus, and said, "That's all right. We don't like you, either."

Snape took the other wizard's hand and shook it. 

"Let us not reveal that fact to Minerva."

"We won't have to," Sirius replied. "Albus will tell her."

"Indeed, it seems as if Albus knows everything," Severus agreed.

_Not everything_ , the headmaster thought, staring at Ree's prone form in the Infirmary. "I wish I could help you, dear girl. But I think it would please you to know that those closest to you are helping themselves. Perhaps this will inspire you to wake up and see the miracle of friendship for yourself?"


	3. Chapter Two: On the Subject of Friendship

She thought she might like a garden out _there_ one day, one day when she figured out what sort a place "There" was—and if she could find it. For now, her fruit grew on bushes, on trees, and, for one happy and bizarre moment, in the air—she was so surprised to find silver apples appearing before her as she hummed that she could not make them anymore, but she had red ones aplenty.

Water trickled through her orchard in a slim creek that playfully snaked through the trees. She had been following its progress, wondering to where it flowed. She was not tired, hungry, or scared, but she was beginning to feel lonely.

"I wish someone would come talk to me," she said, settling under a particularly magnificent arboreal specimen to enjoy the gurgling of the water.

"About what?" asked a friendly, masculine voice from the branches above her head.

She glanced up, not startled, but curious. "Hello. Do you live here, as well?"

"Right, I fancy living in a tree."

There was a rustle of leaves as the young man climbed down to join her. She noted that he was tall, red-haired, and wore a good-natured, open expression on his freckled face.

"I'm Waiting," he said, offering her his hand.

She took it. "Pleased to meet you, Waiting. . . . Not to be rude, but isn't 'Waiting' an awfully strange name for a boy?"

The boy grimaced. "It's not my _proper_ name, I expect, but it's better than not having one. What's yours, then?"

"I don't know."

"Well, there you are," said the boy, as if this explained everything.

"I suppose I must have one."

"You might have one, at that. Have you tried to find it?"

The girl looked embarrassed. "I did, but I must not have tried the right way."

The boy sat down with intriguing grace for one so gangly. "How do you mean?"

"Well, I keep finding boys' names."

"Yeah, you're definitely doing it wrong."

The girl sat down, not sad exactly, but feeling foolish.

"Don't worry about it. I'll bet you just need to practice. . . . Say, do you mind if I stay here awhile? I just found out that I could leave . . . Where, and I'm not in a hurry to get back to it."

"I don't mind. Is Where full of people?"

"Nope, just me. It's a bit boring, really. I'd much rather talk to you for awhile, and look at these things," he said, waving his hand in a general way to indicate the girl's garden.

"You're welcome to stay as long as you like, Waiting."

"Thanks, Wondering."

"Oh, I _like_ that—I do that all the time."

~*~

"So, I've been meaning to ask—is the pirate look a keeper, or just a phase?" Sirius asked Severus, as he finished off the last of his Scotch.

Snape pursed his lips. 

"I do _not_ look like a pirate."

"It's the beard," said Remus, "and you've not cut that hair in awhile."

"I fail to see why my personal grooming should be any concern of yours."

"I expect it's to do with not wanting my goddaughter to wake up and fail to recognize you."

"What Sirius means is that we've been concerned," Remus clarified.

"Concerned. Lupin, until only hours ago, you wanted to kill . . . ."

As Snape's voice trailed off, Remus and Sirius shared a resigned look. 

Sirius spoke first. "I do apologize for my stupidity, Sev— _erus_ —I shouldn't have—I'm sorry about the . . . prank. It _was_ only meant as a prank."

The Potions master looked at Black. His face want blank, but his eyes glittered with some indecipherable emotion. 

"Be that as it may, Lupin _did_ want me dead for my entirely imagined behavior toward Harry."

Remus sighed.

"' _Entirely_ imagined', Severus? I don't think so—no, wait," he said, holding up a hand. "I don't really believe that you behaved inappropriately. I was just struck by the force of her emotion in her letter, and when I thought of your . . . overall relationship with Ree, I was worried. And not just for her."

"Again you would have me believe that you feel concern for me?"

"Yes, I _would_. You're part of our little family whether you like it or not. Ree brought you into it, and you're stuck with us, so yes, I do worry about you. Sirius worries about you, as well."

"We are, after all, friends," Sirius said. "Minerva said so."

When Severus had been in school with the two men now sitting in his parlor, he had envied them their easy friendship with James Potter and Peter Pettigrew, which had been born of mutual interests and concern for each other. His own "friendship" between Lucius Malfoy and himself had been arranged by his father; the Snape and Malfoy families were of the same sort, and it was only natural that their sons should associate. 

As boys, Severus and Lucius had tolerated each other, but when they had grown older, the silver-haired boy had introduced the brooding Severus to other ways of using their . . . connection, ways of which their fathers would not have approved. Being in Malfoy's company had always been thrilling, but never comforting. Sitting companionably and drinking with Sirius and Remus just because he wanted to, without worrying about any hidden agenda on their parts, was something of an enjoyable relief. 

_Though I would never admit feeling such a thing._

Remus cleared his throat. 

"I understand your not trusting us, but we _are_ sorry. And I think Ree would appreciate it if we looked out for each other, don't you?"

This offer was almost too much for the man to accept.

Since feeling the Dark Mark leave him and watching Voldemort die—watching _Harry_ suffer and almost die as she killed the fiend and his followers—Severus had been surviving by not thinking about anything. He woke up. He taught his lessons. He brewed potions for Harry. He sat with Harry. He allowed himself to reread her letter—once only in the day. He never ate in the hall anymore, but had to subsist on the food Dobby left for him—if he did not eat it, the house elf would leave it to molder in his chambers. From all his not-thinking, he had come to accept that he cared for Harry deeply; he could think of her as a friend, but past that he would not permit himself to contemplate. And it was exhausting, he had found, this desire not to think along certain lines. 

He felt frozen, unable to continue until he spoke to the girl—the woman. For the first time in years, if he so desired, he could be free of all obligations to anyone other than himself by writing one brief letter of resignation, yet he felt more trapped than being hunted by Voldemort had ever caused him to be. While his . . . friend, his first _true_ friend, lay comatose and beyond his reach, there was no center, no purpose, no definition to his life. He needed her to help him find it, and was almost too drunk now to feel the shame and hopelessness that this realization caused him.

Sirius' voice jarred him out of his reverie. "Severus?"

Without meaning to say it, but knowing it was true the moment the words left his lips, Snape said, "Yes, I forgive you."

His guests glanced at each other with expressions that he could not read.

_Perhaps if you wiped the tears from your eyes you_ would _be able to, you ridiculous git_ , Severus thought, but he made no move to do so. _Friendship. Friends. Friend. Friend who sacrificed herself for me. Why? What made me worthy of the sacrifice?_

A sudden surge of self-loathing and confusion and fear made it impossible to focus. 

"Well," said Remus, "I'm glad that you do—and thank you for the drinks. Next time, we'll bring the bottle, but I think we've trespassed on your hospitality long enough."

"Goodnight, Sev," Sirius said.

"What? Oh, yes—goodnight."

Remus closed the door to Snape's suite just as the sobs broke from within the room. He pulled Sirius into a fierce hug.

"Should we go back in there, you think?"

"No, Sirius. I don't think Severus would thank us for it."

"I hate myself, you know."

"Try not to, love."

"Remus?" Sirius asked, pulling away from his partner to put a silencing spell on Severus' room.

"Yes?"

"Does it concern you at all that now I'm more worried about Ree breaking _his_ heart than the other way 'round?"

Remus considered his lover's question carefully before responding. "I think that you and I had better promise each other now that we won't become involved in their . . . relationship, not for _any_ reason."

"Agreed," Sirius replied, though without really thinking about it.

~*~

"I can do it, myself, Albus," Minerva said testily as she rose from her bed. "I have examinations to plan. I cannot simply allow Sirius to do everything."

Dumbledore sighed. "Minerva, you look pale. You have not yet recovered fully, and you aren't like to do so if you do not rest."

The tired witch turned sadly toward her beloved meddler and smiled thinly. "Albus, you know that I'm not—"

"No!" he said, holding up his hand. "Don't say it." 

He crossed the distance between them and held her close to himself.

"Oh, Albus. You have to accept this. You cannot save us all."

Tears threatened the cheeks of both lovers, but did not dare fall. They stood entwined for long minutes until Albus felt Minerva weakening. He swept her up and carried her back to the bed, tucking her in before she could complain.

Resigned, Minerva said, "You are a manipulative ba—"

Albus drew up a chair. 

"Frog balls," he said with an attempt at cheerfulness. "I merely thought that you would prefer to be comfortable as I told you the story of how Grashthaten the Grievous became most aggrieved to lose a certain amulet of power to a much younger me."

"Oh, go on, man! Grashthaten was dead three hundred years before you were born."

"I'm hurt that you would doubt me, my love."

"Doubt you? I wonder at your sanity, sometimes, Albus."

_As do I, my dear. As do I._

While only exaggerating his deeds a _little_ as he related his tale, Dumbledore began to plan for his future. Accept her death he might have to do, but lose Minerva, no, that was not something he thought he could face.

_After all these years, I have found someone with whom I cannot be without_ , he thought, watching the lines fade from around her eyes as sleep smoothed them closed. "I do love you, my girl—more than life."

~*~

Dobby had not carried all of the letters Ree Potter had written before fighting what she believed would be the last battle of her life; one letter and a book had been given to Blaise Zabini to deliver. This he did as the snakes were stealing Snape's blood, and Ree and Neville were preparing themselves at Godric's Hollow to face their mutual destiny. Draco . . . well, for what Draco had been preparing, Blaise had not been allowed to know, and all the young Auror knew lately was the bitter taste of blighted affection and the odd freedom that comes from being ostracized by those who once . . . cared for him. Ordering another drink, Blaise permitted himself the opportunity to reflect on how his life had changed.

The last time he had spoken to Draco was six months previously, on the night they had spent with Ree. Blaise knew that his lover was making dark plans that would most likely lead to yet more pain, destruction, and death, and it hurt him that Draco did not trust him enough to make him a part of those plans.

He was carrying the grimoire that Ree had left to him, which he recognized as having come from his family's library, to "safety" only because he knew Draco would not accept anything from him. That, and he decided that his mother no longer required it, or she would never have parted with it. 

_I could have procured it for her, but she didn't trust me to do it_ , he thought bitterly. _What did I do to deserve that lack of trust? Just what you asked me to do_.

Critical self-examination was not something which Blaise practiced.

It galled him that Ree had never loved _him_ , that Draco had loved _Ree_.

His thoughts continued to run in much the same vein as he entered the Three Broomsticks later that night. Rosmerta favored him with a thorough look before gesturing him to follow her and walking toward the rear of the establishment. She held open the private door for him, and bade him to sit by her fire. The consideration warmed Blaise far more than the steaming tankard of the foaming, sweet-smelling drink that appeared next to him on the side-table.

"What's this?"

Rosmerta smiled. "Something bracing. You look as though you need encouragement."

He murmured his thanks into the foam.

"You are carrying something to me, I believe?"

"Yes."

"May I?"

"Of course."

The publican accepted the heavy, paper-wrapped package with no difficulty, holding it balanced on the flat of her palm and pulling the leather covering from it quickly.

"Ah, the Grimoire Nigromantia. Excellent. I believe that leaves one last copy in the world waiting for me to collect it."

"Ree also wanted you to have this," Blaise said, handing the woman a letter.

After briefly scanning the epistle, Rosmerta said, "I believe that I shall read this aloud, Mr. Zabini."

"As you wish."

> Dear Madam Rosmerta,
> 
> Professor Snape mentioned in passing once that you were an avid collector of ancient texts of prohibited magic, and that your care of these books was beyond reproach. Because of this, please find the Grimoire Nigromantia with this letter. If it amuses you to add it to your library, excellent. If not, please do me the favor of destroying it.
> 
> I think you can guess by the subject matter of my gift to you that soon I, Neville, and Draco will be dead, which will leave Blaise quite alone, as he and Ron only tolerate each other. No one should have to lose his closest friends and deal with the recriminations of those who survive without someone to support him. For this reason, I would ask that you look out for Blaise. He's very like the professor in his sulks and sudden turns of mood, though he hides them almost as well, and I know how very much Severus has always relied upon you.
> 
> On that score, I suppose I should apologize for what my behavior has been toward you in my more jealous moments. Unfortunately, I can't bring myself to lie. I'm not sorry. I hate that he loves you and not me.
> 
> Despite these feelings, I would like to thank you for your many kindnesses to me, even though I didn't deserve half of them. For the ones that I did deserve, and for the book now in your possession (a book for which armies have vied, or so I have been told), I hope that you will take care of the men I love.
> 
> With respect,
> 
> Ree Potter

Blaise was stunned. _She remembered me_.

"Of course she did. She loves you."

"Not enough," the wizard said, not evincing any surprise that the publican could read his thoughts.

He had long suspected that there was more to the lady than met the eye, and his had seen much that was strange in his own home.

"Not in the way you would wish. Still, her regard is worth having, and you do have it," Rosmerta said, reaching across the grimoire to touch the young man's cheek.

Blaise turned his face into the palm of her hand and sighed.

He was glad that he had left the glitzy Muggle bar where he had felt miserably out of place—where he had gone looking for memories of himself and Draco, made when the young men dancing on the floor and edging closer to him at the tap were familiar. Everything had seemed strange there, and everyone, a stranger.

_I don't belong there anymore_ , Blaise thought.

"No, you don't," Rosmerta said. "You belong here, with me."

"Yes," he agreed, thinking, _At least here I feel as if I am somewhat closer to home_.

~*~

It had taken her hours to finally feel comfortable enough to sleep, and she had found the perfect position in which to do it: lying against and between and on top of a mountain range of pillows. 

_This is heavenly_ , thought Hermione as she allowed her aching spine to relax into a sea of cotton. 

And then the kicking began.

"No, Percy. Mommy wants to _sleep_!" the young medi-witch yelled in frustration, throwing her head back and wondering if there was some fetal-calming potion she could brew to prevent the gymnastics her unborn son was performing.

A knock at her door interrupted her attempts to visualize that thought.

"Hermione, are you vell?"

_Oh, by all the gods_. Viktor. 

She liked Viktor. They were friends. But despite the fact that she was newly "widowed" and heavily pregnant, her training partner exhibited attentions toward her that Hermione found over-warm.

"Hermione?" Viktor called again, sounding worried.

"I'm _fine_. I just can't get to sleep. I'm sorry to have disturbed you."

"May I come in?"

Hermione sighed. _He's_ not _going to go away. Ron was right. I wrote you too many letters_!

"Hermione?"

"Oh, all _right_."

The door opened immediately, and Viktor's beaming face greeted the prone witch. 

"Is mother grumpy? That is unfortunate because I know of a vay to help her rest happily throughout the night, but if she is mean to me—"

"Oh, what _is_ it?"

"I must touch your feet," Viktor said with a wolfish grin.

"What?"

"Yes, to your feet I must apply this salve, and then you and Baby shall sleep vell," the man said, flipping up the covers off of the feet in question.

"Viktor Krum, do you mean to tell me you've had this—" 

Hermione stopped speaking as the medi-wizard's hands on her surprised her. She suddenly felt wonderful.

"It should feel varm, yes?" he asked, efficiently rubbing the salve into the woman's left heel.

"Oh, yes, yes it does. . . . Wait a moment, just how long have you had this salve?"

"For a long time. It is a recipe used by all female Krums, you know."

"No, I _didn't_ know! Why are you just _now_ telling me? Why haven't you—oh, why aren't you _selling_ it? You could make a fortune!"

Viktor chuckled. "I am a Krum, Hermione."

"What has that got to do with anything?" she asked, her attempts at anger failing utterly.

"I already have a fortune. In fact, I have _almost_ everything for vhich I could vish."

_How_ do _I let myself get into these messes_?

It was only the potency of the salve affecting her nerves that prevented Hermione from responding appropriately to Viktor's comment. She would think of a way to put him off as soon as she prized the recipe for his magical salve from him.

Baby Percy, having ended his performance, seemed to agree.

~*~

Rosmerta never enjoyed being the center of attention, but she liked people. She lived for a good chat over a pint. Gossip had a way of becoming useful when you least expected it, and so running a pub gave her exactly what she needed: it allowed her to be in the thick of things, to know what was happening in her town, to be able to speak to a wide assortment of people without skulking about, and to have the free time to pursue other interests without scrutiny—for one did not need to be present in the taproom every waking moment. Rosmerta found that she was in her back rooms "brewing up a new batch" of something or other quite frequently. And as her establishment closed at the stroke of midnight and she was not a being who required a great deal of sleep, well, slipping out unnoticed when the need arose was a simple enough matter.

What she could not tolerate, however, was rudeness. She ran a friendly house, and she expected her patrons to behave themselves. When one of them did not, and gentle persuasion could not bring the person in question to his or her—or its, as the case sometimes was—senses, the lady had more forceful means of bringing individuals to heel.

Years ago now, when young Malfoy, Crabbe, Goyle, Zabini, Parkinson, and Snape had been gadding about after curfew, Rosmerta had surprised the group as they were worrying an older witch on her way home from a neighbor's. The boys had been thoroughly inebriated, but that they would tease anyone cruelly did not sit well with the publican; no one harmed a member of her village.

"Pick up those packages for Widow Blake this instant!" Rosmerta had ordered the Hogwarts' students.

Malfoy had laughed. "Here's more interesting game, Severus!"

The dark-haired boy, who had been hanging a little ways back from the group, stepped forward to help the old witch to the jeers of his friends.

Rosmerta had pulled her wand.

"Just what do you think you can do with that?" Parkinson had asked dismissively. "There are six of us."

" _Expelliarmus_!" called the widow, and Goyle, Crabbe, and Malfoy lost their wands.

Parkinson promptly vomited. Snape had attempted to help the boy, but he had been shoved off.

" _Accio wand_!" Rosmerta had cast, collecting the ill boy's wand, and also Zabini's. 

She had then urged the elderly witch to get home, assuring her that she would "have a talk" with the headmaster.

"Return to the school, gentleman. I'll see you tomorrow, I have no doubt."

"I'll not take orders from a bar maid," Malfoy had said in a cold voice.

Rosmerta's laugh had been rich and warm and suffocating. It surrounded the boys and _squeezed_. 

"Stay then, stay and _die_."

The other boys had staggered off when the publican's laughter had stopped, but Snape had remained. 

He was fascinated by the woman.

"Can you breathe again?"

"Yes."

"Would you care for a drink?"

"No—I mean—no."

"You're called Severus, aren't you?"

"They'll come back. They'll hurt you!"

"Severus, do I seem to be someone easily harmed?" Rosmerta had asked, favoring the young man with a hungry look.

He had blushed. 

She had smiled.

"You've a great deal going on behind those eyes of yours. Come, tell me everything."

"Um, okay—I mean, yes, Ma'am," Severus had responded nervously.

"Never refer to me as 'ma'am' again."

"As you wish, Ma'—I mean, that is—"

"You may call me Rosmerta, Severus. . . . You'll feel more comfortable about it in the morning."

She had never forgotten his blush. It was one of the last times she had seen him so prettily stained by innocence.

As much as Rosmerta enjoyed young men who were relatively free of guile, she did not require it in those on whom she deigned to bestow her companionship. Blowing out every candle save one in the taproom, she found herself wondering what manner of lad Blaise would prove to be.

_Not_ too _respectful, I hope_ , she thought, as she moved to stand before the wizard, who had just finished his drink. "What else may I offer you?"

Abruptly, Blaise stood, and, without breaking eye contact, lifted the lady off of her feet and carried her to her private rooms.

_The element of surprise_ , thought Rosmerta, _smooths over so many of life's otherwise awkward moments_.

But even though she appreciated the young man's effort, she was a bit wistful for the time when such a masculine gesture would have caused her genuine bewilderment. For the witch was familiar with the seduction techniques of men, and had known in her time a man who could levitate the lovers' _bed_ for hours.

_To float in a sea of conjured flowers, caressed by fragrant petals and a pair of warm hands—such is now the stuff of fairytales._


	4. Chapter Three: Whatever Else There Is

Waiting kicked his way through a pile of wilting red flowers in annoyance. His attempts to make his own blossoms had failed, but he had kept at it for hours. Now, he was irritated with his new friend—who could change blades of grass into multi-colored fronds and form bouquets with them, the show-off—because she would not even consider the suggestion he had just offered.

"No. That's absurd."

"Why? Why should it be? If you can grow all of this simply by wishing for it, then why couldn't you just will a doorway out of here?" Waiting asked, throwing himself down next to the exasperating girl.

Wondering groaned and pulled herself off the ground where she had been lolling comfortably. The soft grass on which she had been lying was bent into an impression of her form. And a trail of broken grass marked the progress of Waiting's pacing. With a thought, she had the fronds standing again, and was pleased. 

"Because I just don't think it works like that."

"Have you tried it? I tried it, and now I'm here with you."

"But you _wanted_ to leave."

Waiting seemed unprepared for her remark. "You mean to tell me that you want to stay here? Without people? Without, well, without whatever else there is?"

A dark emotion shuddered through her and she realized that she was frightened. "I don't think that there is—I mean to say that I don't think everything out . . . _There_ is good."

"Havers! Weren't you yellin' for people a while back? I'll bet there are lots of other people, somewhere, just waiting. Yeah, just waiting, like me!"

"Wouldn't you rather I try and make birds again?"

Wondering's attempts to create the feathered creatures had succeeded in producing butterflies. At first, she and Waiting had been excited to see the delicate insects. Some of them were ornamented by silver filigree frosting green wings, while others had red wings traced by the glimmering of gold. But as soon as two butterflies of different colorations met in the air, they began tearing each other apart. The fighting had convinced Wondering that the insects came from the Outside, that she had not made them. It was an unsettling notion. 

"Nah," said the boy. "I think I've had enough of this game."

"What do you mean?"

"I think I _will_ try and find a door."

"You're _going_?"

"Yeah, I think I should. I _know_ that there is something out there, and I want it. I want to see it. . . . Don't you?"

She didn't know. She thought not. Periodically, strange waves of . . . magic wafted in from the place beyond the unmarked graves. The energy made her feel frightened, sick, angry, frustrated—it hurt to name these feelings as she experienced them—so she had drawn Waiting deeper into the Quiet by playing a game of Making. Unfortunately, her friend was not as adept at it as was she, and Wondering had begun to suspect that Waiting would belie his name at any moment and leave her.

She was thinking of ways to entertain him when she heard the sound of shoes scraping the trunk of a tree, and then "Goodbye, Wondering!" and rather a lot of leaves rained down upon her head. She sank into the grass and willed herself not to cry, considering as she did so that Waiting had grown the only thing he could in her garden: impatient.

~*~

"Come on, my dear, that's right—just one more big push. One more!" Poppy exclaimed.

"You . . . said . . . one . . . _more_ , TWICE!"

"One more, dear."

"AGH, make up your _mind_ , DAMN you. Don't LIE to me. How many _MORE_?"

"Oh, here's the head now!" Molly said excitedly, popping back to the head of the bed and taking Hermione's hand. "Squeeze as hard as you like, and _really_ scream this time, dear—that always helped me.

"Push harder, my dear. You're doing so very well," Poppy added encouragingly.

_They are_ entirely _too cheerful. I_ must _kill them_. "OUT! OWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWT!"

~*~

As the grass browned and receded and the flowers disappeared, Wondering pulled herself into a sitting ball and withdrew behind the curtain of her hair. She was scared to be alone, and she did not feel the springtime running through her veins anymore. Flashes of sound and pictures assaulted her, the most disturbing of these involving the waxy, frozen face of a boy who she knew was dead. She rocked herself and tried not to cry.

"I'm sorry, Cedric. I'm so sorry."

It did not surprise her that she was talking to someone she did not know, someone about whom she knew nothing. Such things happened all the time since Waiting had . . . stopped.

But of course she could not keep a friend—she knew that she did not deserve one. 

"I must have done something really bad to you. I must be here as punishment," she whispered to the unknown boy, tears beginning to slide down her cheeks.

~*~

She was crying. He had made her cry.

"Perhaps I should not give her anymore of this particular potion," he said to Albus.

"Nonsense, Severus. It's working. You're bringing her closer to us."

The headmaster's words were not reassuring.

~*~

Hermione's screams were drowned out by the lusty first exhalations of a plump baby boy with a shock of red hair.

"Oh, Ginny, isn't he beautiful?" asked Mrs. Weasley. "Ginny? Ginny!"

"Don't mind her. I made sure to charm the floor so that it would not hurt when she 'left us'. She's looked a little green every since Hermione's water broke," said Poppy, taking the child to a small basin and gently cleaning him.

When the baby was swaddled, she brought him to Hermione, and Molly helped the young woman hold her son for the first time.

"Oh, you _are_ Mummy's gorgeous boy, _aren't_ you?"

Poppy beamed at the quieting boy. "He looks like he'll be a grand sleeper, my dear."

"That sounds like an excellent idea, really," the new mother replied.

~*~

She awoke to the sound of singing, a soft croon, a giggle, a snatch of song—the welcome noise was being made by the distinct shape of a plump little boy being swung by his arms gently between the less-certain, taller figures on either side of him.

"Hi!" the child exclaimed. "I've been looking for you for ages!"

"You have?" Wondering asked, rising slowly to her feet.

"Yes! Did you know that there were doorways into places filled with mountains of chocolate and other yummy things?"

She smiled, and replied, "That does sound very nice. Have _you_ been eating sweets?"

The boy did a cartwheel away from—his parents?—and then landed in a cheerful pile at Wondering's feet. "I can eat anything I want to—after I clean my plate, of course. I can sail in boats and I can play pirates with Daddy and I can learn spells from Mommy and I can have lots of playmates, too!"

The figures behind the boy shimmered slightly, but remained difficult to see. From them, however, the young girl could sense only a calm joy. The boy radiated an aggressive happiness that she envied.

"And what's your name, then?"

He giggled. "Don't know—haven't picked one, yet. Mommy calls me her butter-tummy, and Daddy says that I'm a hero, but I think I might like to call myself Neville."

A thrill of recognition shuddered through Wondering. "I've heard that name before, I think."

"Well, good! I don't want to pick a name no one's heard of!"

"Like what?"

"Like Kedric!"

"No, dear," a softly amused voice said behind the boy. "His name is Sedric, but it's spelled with a C."

"See? It's confusing! But that's okay because he knows you and he's a good pirate-fighter and he can fly in the air and he's my friend!"

"Who is?"

"I am, Harry."

She turned to look behind her and saw the dead boy's face attached to a living body, a body that was steadily approaching her. "No!" she yelled, shrinking away from the distressing sight.

"Oh, wait! That's not right," said the little boy. "Mommy! I did it wrong again!"

The scent of incense trailed the maternal figure as she approached the living spectre of Wondering's memory. "Here you are, then. That's a love," the boy's mother said, passing a hand over the apparition's face.

"Harry? Can you see me more clearly, now?"

"Why do you keep calling me that?"

"Wasn't that one of the names you found?"

"Yes. . . . How do you know about—"

A happy litany interrupted the girl. "Ice cream! 'Nilla and chocolate and strawberry and toffee," called Neville, who was swinging between his parents again as they walked away.

Cedric laughed. "He's practicing. Little boys and girls usually try to make everything a sweet at first."

"But, but isn't Neville older?" she asked, beginning to remember that she had once known a boy by that name.

"Yes, and if I hadn't wanted you to recognize me, I'd look different. But Neville is where he's happiest, and he couldn't be bothered to switch."

"I don't understand."

The boy extended his hand, and said, "Come with me and I'll help you to do just that."

"Come with you where?"

"Do you trust me, Harry?"

Oddly enough, she did. 

"Yes," she affirmed, taking his hand.

Tall bushes surrounded her all of a sudden, and her body . . . shifted. Suddenly, there was more to her on bottom, less on top, and she whirled suspiciously on Cedric, wand drawn.

"Where'd this come from?"

"Look," the boy instructed her, gesturing to a clearing amidst the maze.

And there she was, a he, with Cedric and a cup. The memories came so fast after that for Harry that he—she—it was all so confusing—found herself sitting in the middle of the path cradling her head in her hands and sobbing.

She had failed to notice that her breasts were back, and an older version of Cedric was holding her. When his age difference registered in her mind, she clung to it, rather than the scene of his death.

_Because I was responsible for his dying, wasn't I_?

"No, you weren't. No, Harry. _You_ didn't kill me."

"It should have been me, it should have been me, it should have been me . . . ."

The light embrace of Cedric's arms hardened into a painful one, and it made her focus. 

"Why are you so old now?"

He laughed. "I'm not. This is just the way I saw myself before I died. When you pass beyond the Veil, you take the form you've given yourself."

"Oh."

"Are you all right, then?"

Harry's voice caught in her throat. "Why do I have a girl's body, but a boy's name? Why was Voldemort trying to kill me? Why did you come and show me—"

"Shh," Cedric said, laying a finger on her lips. "Oh, I'm sorry, Harry. I thought that you'd remember if I showed you, but I guess that part's not up to me."

"I remember what happened with you, just not _why_ ," she said, feeling lost, but numb. "I don't understand any of this, Cedric."

He considered her a moment before replying.

"But do you believe that it wasn't your fault?"

"No," she admitted.

"Well, in that case . . . Harry?"

"Yes?"

"I forgive you."

"You _do_?"

"Yes, I forgive you, Harry, and I want you to stop blaming yourself for my death."

"I'll try."

"No. You have to stop because if you don't, I won't be able to ever completely leave . . . the place I was. All right? Promise me?"

"You know about the Outside?"

"Sure, I've been watching you there for a long time. . . . So, Harry? Do you promise?"

The boy's face was kind, his voice firm, and his body warm. She knew he really was Cedric, even though beyond the experience of his death she knew nothing else about him. But he was real. He was present. He was not asking her to do something unreasonable. She expected she could say yes and mean it, so she did.

Cedric smiled. "That's great, Harry," he told her as he stood up.

Harry stood, as well, and asked, "Do you know how I can find a door?"

"Where do you want to go?"

She was still trying to think of an answer to that when she realized that she was alone again—and she could not remember what the older boy had called her. But none of that really mattered, as she was yet standing in the middle of the maze and possessed with the certainty that she could trace her way out of it. Her path was clear—melting globs of ice cream formed a trail for her.

"Thanks, Neville," she called, beginning to find her way.

A child-like voice echoed in her ears, "Eat with your hands!"

She laughed and bent down to take a dollop of strawberry ice cream from the ground, and as she did, felt an inexorable pull in the pit of her stomach that dragged her down into a rich pink watery current.

She did not have time to wonder what was happening.

~*~

Hermione sat quietly next to Harry's bed holding her baby to her breast and examining her friend. 

"He misses you, you know," she told the other woman. "He misses you, and it's killing him."

Albus Dumbledore walked slowly toward Hermione, so as not to startle her. 

"Good evening, Miss Granger. How is Percy feeling?"

"Hungry," she responded, laughing. "He eats _constantly_."

"Weasley boys are as famous for their appetites as they are for their hair."

Hermione stiffened a bit, and her son whimpered.

"I apologize, my dear."

"There's no need for that."

"I know that it will be difficult for you. . . . I'll do whatever I can to make things bearable, until—"

Eyes filling with tears, the young witch detached her baby from her breast and handed him to the headmaster so that she could adjust her clothing. 

"You've done more than I could have ever imagined, professor. There is no need for you to apologize."

"I might have seen it coming and stopped it, had I not had—"

"Other things on your mind? Like the work of the Order, Harry's destiny, the attacks on Hogwarts, the rise of a madman, the health of your . . . friend? That you've managed to spare a thought for me and Percy and Ro—that you've managed to—"

"I'm sorry, Hermione. I'm sorry that I did not prevent it."

The young mother took her baby from Dumbledore's arms. 

"Merlin knows you're not a god, sir. I'll wait. And I'll be all right. . . . I understand what happens next."

_Excellent, my girl. That is more than I can say for myself_ , Albus thought, smiling slightly at Hermione before taking his leave of her. "Try and rest."

"Of course, professor." _I've plenty of time for that now, don't I_?

~*~

When she surfaced, she found herself reclining in a bed and blinking into real light. Sunlight. No. Moonlight. Yes. She thought she remembered that there were moons. And one was spilling light into the room in which she found herself even now. It did not alarm her to find that there was a man standing at the foot of her bed, a tall man with longish hair and a short beard, and, from what she could see of his face from the shaft of light that spilled across it, he was deep in thought. Focusing on his eyes, which were closed, she was surprised to hear the echo of a thought—only she knew it was not hers.

"Happy birthday, Harry," a treacle-coated voice resonated through her mind. 

_Thank you_ , she thought back. _Am I Harry, then_?

The man's eyes snapped open, and a rougher version of that rich voice filled her ears. "Harry? Are you—have you? POPPY!" he yelled, coming around the end of her bed to sit beside her.

The man's face looked worried and ecstatic and angry all at once. Harry wondered how it was possible for one person to contain so many feelings. She was just getting ready to ask the man about it when he gathered her up out of the bed and embraced her.

_You smell like tea_ , she thought, feeling oddly comforted. _I like it_.

The man pulled back abruptly, but laid her back on her pillows gently. "Harry—"

"Oh, you're awake at last!" an excited woman said, coming to sit on the other side of her bed and pulling the tie to her wrapper tight as she did so.

"What time is it?"

"What _month_ is it, more like. Oh, Harry, I'm so glad you're awake," the woman said, beginning to examine her.

The man, Harry noted, had stood up. She tried to follow suit, but when she attempted to sit up on her own, the world began to swirl before her eyes and she fell back. She had to close her eyes against the dizziness.

"Don't try to get up, Harry. You've been in a . . . a healing trance since December. It's going to take you a bit of time to become reoriented to consciousness."

"So, I _am_ Harry?" she asked, finding it difficult to think and becoming fascinated by the back of her eyelids. _Pretty sparks. Follow the colors_.

"Poppy?" the man asked. He sounded scared.

"It's all right, Severus. She's only just fallen asleep—into a true sleep."

_And a healing trance isn't true sleep_? was the last thing Harry thought before her thoughts stopped forming in her mind.

~*~

"I thought you might be back here," Harry said. 

She had grown used to the fact that she had a boy's name, a girl's name, and apparently many honorifics. A bewildering number of people had come to see her in recent days, but none of them were as welcome to her as the tall, dark, taciturn man whose name, she had learnt, was Severus Snape. He had asked her to call him Severus, but it seemed . . . inappropriate somehow.

"Professor?"

"Yes, Miss Potter?" he asked, turning away from the view afforded him by the large window at the end of the Infirmary corridor.

"Do you always look like a pirate?"

Snape snorted. "That is the second time in my life that I have been told I favored a pirate."

"Well, you certainly dress more like a monk than a buccaneer, but there's a little swash in your buckle."

Her comment took him completely by surprise, and Snape found himself actually blushing, but recovered quickly. 

"Only a _little_?" he asked in a mock-offended tone.

"You're too _subtle_ to be a pirate," Harry teased, laughing. "But wicked enough, I'd imagine."

His expression clouded, and she felt him withdraw on more levels than she could understand. 

"Oh, I apologize. I shouldn't flirt, but I'm so _frustrated_! No one will tell me anything, except that I've had an accident that scrambled my brains, and that the best way to _unscramble_ them is to just be patient."

"And you are _not_ patient."

"You say that as though you know for sure. You _must_ know. You _do_ know me, don't you? You wouldn't come to see me if you didn't. What happened to me?"

"Would you like a cup of tea?"

" _Fine_ , don't answer," Harry said, turning away from Snape.

"No, I am in earnest. Would you like to join me in my chambers for a cup of tea?"

"In your chambers? You'd like to drink tea in each one, or one in particular?"

Snape looked amused, and smirked at her as he said, "I had in mind drinking tea in my sitting room, which may be of interest to you."

"So I've made it as far as the sitting room, then?" she responded with an impish grin.

"Miss Potter, if you're to be a guest in my private suite, I expect that you'll be on your best behavior."

"Then you had better have chocolate biscuits, hadn't you?" Harry asked, taking Snape's arm.

"Dobby!"

"Yes Sir, Professor Snape?" asked the house elf after immediately popping up in front of the pair.

"Miss Potter and I will be taking tea in my chambers. Would you—"

Dobby disappeared and reappeared before Snape could finish his request. "Tea is all ready. Dobby has put out all of Harry Potter's favorite things—and yours, too, he has, Sir!"

"Very good, Do—"

But the house elf had gone again before the man could complete his sentence.

"He seems to like you," Harry remarked, tilting her head up so that she could see Snape's expression.

He was about five happy inches taller than she, which was only one reason that she had found to like him.

"Your memory will return to you one day, Miss Potter. When it does, you and I will have a _great deal_ to discuss."

Not long after, the Potions master and Harry found themselves tucking into a rather thorough "tea."

"I suppose he's right," Harry said, swallowing a bite of a large ham and cheese sandwich.

"Who is right about what?"

"Dobby. You _are_ on the thin side."

"The house elf is only doing what you told him to do."

"How so?"

"You asked him to take care of me before your . . . accident."

"Ah."

"Here," Severus said, handing the young woman a letter.

Harry put her cup down and took it, reading it quietly to herself. "Voldemort."

"Does the name mean anything to you?"

"No."

"Home."

"Yes. This was your home for awhile. Is anything familiar?"

"Only you," she said, suddenly shy of him.

He sighed. I had hoped that—"

"Where did I . . . sleep?"

"You and I were not . . . lovers, Miss Potter. Because of my duties during the war, because of my . . . involvement with the person responsible for much of what happened to you, I looked out for you while you were a student here and before you began training as an Auror."

"Ah. We seem to have been good friends."

"We seem to have been."

"Weren't we?"

"In truth, I haven't any idea what to call what we were—what we _are_ —to each other."

Harry did not speak for a long time, and Severus began to wonder if it had been a mistake to tell her even as little as he had.

Considering the softness of the parchment that indicated it had been much-read, Harry asked, "Professor?"

"Yes, Miss Potter?"

"I imagine that when I get my memory back, we _will_ have a great deal to discuss."

Neither of them could fathom what the other was thinking, to the great relief of both.


	5. Chapter Four: Someone with Whom to Share It

The sudden assuagement of worry afforded by Ree's awakening purchased for Sirius and Remus a kind of manic euphoria; they could not stop doing for her, and their solicitude was causing the witch increasing distress.

"I don't _know_ them, Madam Pomfrey. I can't understand half the things they talk to me about, and it hurts to see how sad their eyes become when they realize it. . . . Every time they visit, I feel horribly guilty. What should I do?"

Poppy pressed one of the girl's hands, and said, "Don't worry, my dear. The boys know it's going to take you some time, and if you would prefer to be . . . alone for awhile, I'm certain they would understand."

"But how can I tell my . . . my _parents_ to go away?"

"I'll do it for you."

And that was that. Poppy told a fairly convincing tale about how the information Ree was learning from her visitors had begun to overload her nerves, and that she, as Ree's caretaker, was insisting on a period of quiet.

"Not even Albus will be allowed to see her for the time being, I'm afraid. It's what Tongish Oddfish from St. Mungo's suggested, and I concur. Ree needs a few weeks to become used to herself again."

After a moment, Remus asked, "Won't that be difficult here? Should we find a place for her to go that's private?"

"I can't think of many places more secure than the school, dear."

Sirius spoke. "Perhaps she could move back into—"

"The dungeons?" asked a quiet feminine voice from the door to the Infirmary proper.

"Ree," Sirius said, rising to greet her and pulling his goddaughter into a hug. "I'm so happy to see you."

Remus also embraced the girl, but then stepped back, uncertain. "I didn't think you wanted to see us."

"I'm sorry. I'm just feeling overwhelmed, and I'm tired of disappointing everyone."

"You've never disappointed any of us, love. Don't allow yourself to think such rot," Remus insisted.

"Would you mind terribly if I went off on my own for awhile?"

"Of course not," both men responded at once.

Ree giggled. "You'd better stop that," she said, conspiratorially. "Someone might think you're lovers."

~*~

Some weeks later when Hermione found Ree, her "new" friend was leaning against Severus Snape's chest as he helped her adjust the lens of the telescope at the top of the Astronomy tower.

"There, can you see it now?" the man asked in quite the most gentle tone the haruspex had ever heard him employ.

"Hmm, I think so. Yes! I _do_ see it, and you're right. That _is_ the star from my dream." Ree turned to look at Snape and smiled delightedly. "How did you know?"

Hermione heard how the Potion master's breath caught as he stared down at Ree. She wondered if he would kiss her.

_Oh, by all the gods! This is_ too _surreal_.

"When you were a ch—a student—you often dreamt of Isarat's Eye," he explained, casually smoothing a stray tress back in place behind Ree's ear. "I found you up here on more than one occasion breaking curfew and stargazing."

"Is that the _polite_ name for it?"

"Miss Potter, you are a dreadful flirt."

Ree pretended to pout, forming her lips into a moue.

And then the professor did something Hermione never thought he knew how to do: he _laughed_. It was a rich, subtle sound, his laugh, and the action of it altered his face completely.

_Who knew you were handsome_?

"I've been teaching far too long for feminine wiles to have any manipulative affect on me," Snape said lightly, stepping back a bit.

"That is most unfortunate, Professor. Especially when you consider just how I intended to—"

In response to Hermione's shocked gasp, Snape said, "Good evening, Miss Granger."

"Oh, I'm so sorry to interrupt your . . . conversation, Professor Snape, but Ree's . . . guest has arrived."

"Ah," he responded in a tone suddenly clipped and distant. "Harry, you'll want to see this person, I assure you."

The young witch cast Snape a doubtful glance. "Are you certain you won't come with me?"

"You'll have Miss Granger with you for the . . . introduction, and after that, I don't think you'll require anyone's company."

"Thank you for showing me how to use the telescope, Professor," Harry responded after a moment in which Hermione thought her friend might be preparing to say something completely different. "I'll see you later this evening, then."

"As you wish," Snape said, returning his attention to the telescope.

Training it on the star also known as the Wizard's Light, he found himself wishing that he could see what was coming.

~*~

"Merlin knows," people said, and he _did_. As a boy, when the sounds and images had come to him, his tribe had thought he was mad. For this, he had been stoned out of their settlement. It had not been too difficult to survive alone; without others around him, it was easier to bear the "gift" given him by the gods. It was this period in his life that had taught him that the soul required a source of vexation to shape it toward usefulness, and he had been grateful for the lesson. Long centuries later, he was not now certain if the gods were responsible for his powers. That was just as well, as he was no longer able to remember the gods to which he had been wont to pray in younger days.

_But I could certainly use the support of a deity now_ , he thought, though his "now" was a memory of battle, his young king meeting deadly enemies under the flag of a dragon, carrying a sword that his paramour had bestowed upon him that he might give it to Britain's young king. _Ah, Ro, those of your kind were never understood—not even by we who have loved you_.

But that had come after, had it not? His Ro had held a different name when first he had approached her, and she had been the wife of his friend. Salthus had not cared for the dalliance between his beloved and his best friend, so he had transformed Rosantha into something that would never bear children again.

But not before she had borne Godrixibus a son, a boy who had grown strong, married, and had children of his own. 

_And they are_ good _children, aren't they? They're possessed of hardy souls and have bred a strong line_ , the wizard thought.

For he never tired of recognizing the shades of his family reincarnating into his life again with their red hair, freckles, and friendliness—the same things he used to see reflected in his own mirror.

His vision shifted, and a saw himself as a much younger man being befriended by the woman who he had once felt could kill him with a harsh comment. He chuckled. He could not imagine _her_ ever growing tired of life, as he lately found himself; the desire to serve the Land, that soil and its people which had sustained him for so long, was ebbing low in his soul. He wondered if she would allow him to go. _For one needs such permission from one's friends_ , he had decided, though to receive it from a woman because one longed for another was a tricksome business. Taking a deep breath, he willed himself to be someplace else.

"Good evening, Albus," Rosmerta greeted him.

"My dear."

"Would you care for something to drink?"

Hospitality. It had always been important.

"I would, indeed," he replied, stilling the memories of what was to come, what had been, and what was currently from plaguing his thoughts. 

He was used to seeing the world in layers, of finding those in whom he had an interest with the merest turn in his attention, but he wanted to be truly present in this moment. He wanted the linearity of the now; indeed, more and more, he could only shift through time in one direction.

Rowena set a tankard before him. 

"And that scares you sometimes, doesn't it, leman?"

"Yes," he admitted freely.

"You're beginning to let it all go."

"Yes."

"Well, there are yet other Guardians in the world."

"And some half-way in, half-way out of it."

"Son of your blood."

"Son of _our_ blood."

Rosmerta reached her hand across the bar and squeezed Albus'. "I haven't forgotten."

"He will be needed again, that one. But I don't know that I can wait until it is time. I don't know when _her_ time will come."

Rosmerta had been expecting this conversation, though she had not been looking forward to it. She did not care for Minerva.

_But that is to be expected, and I_ do _care for Go_.

Without thinking about it much more deeply than that, Rowena drew her finger through the air to trace a silver sigil. 

"[By this sign I do pledge to bring our lad out of the Edge. By this sign I do pledge to see to the continuance of our line at your death]."

This the witch pledged in a language that had not been spoken in Britain since long before the founding of Hogwarts' School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. But four friends had known it once, before history was recorded on paper, and they used it yet. 

Albus drew his own sigil through Rosmerta's, and the two signs became as one before dissipating with a hiss. 

"It is done. . . . Thank you," Albus said, extending his hand to cradle his old love's face.

She turned her cheek into her hand in a caress.

_I shall not cry for you, friend_ , "but I shall miss you when you go."

In his mind's eye, the unbidden image of Blaise Zabini rising from a bed in which Albus had never slept interrupted the moment. The older wizard sighed. Ro had never forgiven him for allowing Hogsmeade to burn, that first time, and when she had rebuilt her inn, he had not been welcome for . . . uncounted memories. 

_Ah, but see how easily she's making new ones_ , he thought with a rueful inner smile.

"I should return to Merva."

"Yes, your time is short."

_Is it ridiculous of me to be disappointed in her lack of jealousy_? he asked himself, willing himself away.

At that very instant, Blaise was rushing into the tap of the Three Broomsticks, wand drawn, to discover the source of the sound of the smashing.

Rosmerta laughed when she saw his frightened face. 

"I was feeling the need for a change," she explained, and with a wave of her hand, the inn found itself in possession of new plate.

Blaise considered his lover a moment before responding.

"I've always liked hammered pewter for its . . . durability."

"Excellent. Come back to bed," the publican said casually, while fervently thinking, This _one is going to love_ me _more than life_.

~*~

Spending time with Charlie Weasley had not illuminated Ree's perspective on her life, though she had found him terribly handsome, quite witty, and tremendous fun. But more than that, he had not moved her.

"Well," Harry said, sitting next to Hermione on a bench in front of the novitiate, "that isn't quite true. When he smiled at me, I could feel it in my knees. He is a dish, isn't he?"

"I've a fondness for Weasleys, so you'll have no argument from me."

"And how is your little red-head?"

"Very well. Percy is almost over the Wizarding Wheezes. When he is, I'll bring him up to meet you."

"Finally!"

"I'm not the one who hibernated in the dungeons for weeks and wouldn't see anyone—except Severus," Hermione added boldly.

Harry blushed. She and Granger got along smashingly, and it was easy for her to imagine that they had been friends for ages. So far, however, she had no memory of the other woman, or of Ron, or of any of the people who had been so important to her. Despite the easy rapport she'd developed with the other witch, the only person to whom Ree felt drawn was Snape. And _drawn_ was putting it mildly.

"He's been very . . . accommodating."

"What does that mean?"

"Nothing nearly so interesting as what you must be imagining."

"And just what are you thinking about, lately?"

Abruptly, Harry stilled. She remembered sitting with Charlie only an hour previously in the back of a pub. He had not pestered her with questions, but had investigated the geography of her face as if he intended to find something in her expression that would prove his connection to her. It had not taken much time to decipher that they had been lovers. Oddly enough, however, she did not believe that she and Mr. Weasley were the great loves of each other's lives.

_Severus, what has kept us apart_?

"Ree?"

"Oh, I apologize. I . . . ."

"Need to get home."


	6. Chapter Five: Sudden Turns of Mood

Severus remembered the invisibility cloak first appearing to plague him when he could not locate the surfeit of giggles that had invaded the peace of his customary corner of the library. It was only when the little laughs had turned to moans and the charmed fabric had slipped away from James Potter's shoulders that Snape realized he had inadvertently chanced upon a tryst.

_Why can't they employ the Astronomy tower as does every other rutting couple_? he had thought at the time.

Before this moment, Potter had never paid Snape much attention, but the Gryffindor's general air of unworried hurly-burliness had been enough to drive the Slytherin mad. It had grated that an idiot like Potter should have had the favors of any girl he wanted when _he_ could not even find a female lab partner in _Potions_.

The memory rose in Severus' mind.

_"You're shedding your secret skin there, Potter."_

_James turned to face Snape while pressing his back against Lily Evans to afford her some privacy. He then quickly toed the cloak back into his hands and held it up to shield himself._

_It was the sight of James' furious floating head that caused Severus to laugh out loud._

_"You slimy, sneaking bastard! Sod off!"_

_"Only if you give us some privacy, Potter," the other boy replied equably, indicating Lily with a nod of his head. "Or was that an_ offer?" _he leered._

_"AGH!" James howled, leaping for the other boy and becoming tangled in his cloak._

_Lily simply stood there unabashedly naked and stared at Severus in disgust._

_The expression in her eyes helped alleviate the shadow of a serpent of guilt that was coiling in Snape's belly_. Filthy Muggle trollop, _he thought as Potter's falling head nearly smacked his retreating heels._

_"I will_ kill _you for this, you hateful prat!"_

You might try, _Severus thought, as he strode off with masterfully feigned indifference._

_But of course it was_ Sirius _who had attempted to murder him._

Shaking out Potter's cloak with a snap and pushing away the unwelcome memory, Severus contemplated a walk into Hogsmeade.

Exercise. The importance of it could not be stressed enough.

Rosmerta looked directly at him when he entered the pub, but he pretended not to see her. As he had been neglecting his lover for months, Severus hoped she would not bother with him now. Weasley had settled Harry into a private alcove in the back of the taproom, and they were speaking of general things.

"No, I _haven't_ had occasion to be back on a broomstick. Why do you find that odd?"

Thus began the tiresome relation of tall tales about Harry's Quidditch career, so Severus contented himself by watching the girl's face. She seemed politely interested in what Charlie was telling her, but nothing more.

That made him smile, but the action momentarily confounded him. The muscles around his mouth had not stretched past a smirk in a great deal of time, and he felt their weakness.

_What am I doing?_

His thoughts were interrupted by the publican stepping on his left foot with her sharp heel.

_Nothing of which Etiquette would approve, Russ_ , she admonished him before speaking to her patrons. "Could I interest you in some Winterberry Beer? I've just opened a barrel."

"Ah, excellent woman! I'd love one."

"Miss Potter?" Rosmerta asked.

"Judging by his reaction, I'd say I'd be a fool not to try it."

"And so you would be," the inn keeper replied directly into Severus' face as she spun toward the tap and gestured for two tankards of the brew. "I hope you enjoy it. I'm off to carve a roast for sandwiches."

The Potions master followed Rosmerta into the kitchen. 

"Was it necessary to injure me?"

"Was it necessary to stalk a young woman in my home?" she asked while picking up a knife from the counter.

"I was not _stalking_ Harry."

Slicing away thick slices of beef with easy strokes, she asked, "Do you truly imagine that Ree Potter would call it anything _else_?"

Severus did not respond.

"Do you even know what it is that you are doing?"

"Do _you_ wish to enlighten me?"

"You are sitting in a pot full of water, and it is warming. Slowly."

"Would you dispense with your customary riddle-making and be clear for once?"

The after-image of Rosmerta's feral smile was still floating in Severus' eyes when he registered that the sleeve of his once-Marked arm had been sliced away to reveal the pale, restored skin.

"Was that gesture plain enough for you, or must I continue the lesson?"

Severus cursed himself for his error, thinking, _Absence has made me shockingly careless of you, and thoughtless of your gift_.

"True, but at least it is now plain to me that you no longer desire my protection."

"What do you want, Merta?"

"I want you to consider that the war is over, and that you are responsible only for yourself."

"I don't understand."

She put down her knife and stepped within a breath of Severus. 

"Then I suggest you find a drier clime in which to ponder your situation before you find yourself in possession of boiled brains."

With that, she pulled him into a deep kiss and held him. When the red tears began to course down his face, she broke her contact with his mouth to trace each bloody streak with her tongue from cheek to socket.

Severus shuddered as he felt his lover's tongue lick the skin under his eyelids. When he was clean again, she thrust him away.

"What was given has been withdrawn. . . . I release you. . . . Now get out of my kitchen."

Severus did not quite flee.

Over the noise of the patrons in the taproom, a swell of clear laughter rose to wash over his heart. Before this he _did_ flee lest the sound of Harry's happiness drown him. Outside of the pub, he permitted himself a momentary loss of control, breathing in and out great frosty draughts of air. He felt as flustered as he had the night Rosmerta had invited him back to her chambers to divest him of the few remaining shreds of virtue he had then possessed.

"And what do I have _now_?" he whispered to the snow.

It blew away from him in unconcerned waves.

~*~

"Oh, Professor Snappy is good!" Dobby exclaimed, clapping his palms together in glee. "Dobby will do as he asks for Harry Potter!"

The elf blinked out of sight, and Severus sighed heavily. Winky had "packed" his belongings with terrible speed; his chambers looked quite . . . abandoned.

"You are long overdue a vacation."

_Albus. How very surprising that you should know everything_. "Yes."

"Be good enough to drop me a line when you get to where it is you are going, dear boy."

"Of course."

"Would you like me to deliver that?" Albus asked, indicating a roll of parchment in the Potion master's hand.

"Please."

"And do you have any clear notion of where it is you would like to go?"

"No, I thought I'd figure that out as I went."

"Ah, I see. Perhaps you'd allow me to help you on your way?"

"How might you do that?" Severus asked, but he received no verbal reply.

Rather, he found himself and his baggage standing in front of his family's ancestral home.

_I did_ not _wish to apparate here_! he thought angrily. _Wait, I_ did not _apparate here—and there was no portkey—so how_ . . . . 

Suddenly, it did not seem important how Albus had managed to send him to his family "home." The more pressing matter was getting away from it before anyone noticed him.

~*~

Professor McGonagall was waiting for Harry at the edge of the school's grounds astride a thestral. 

"Good evening, Miss Potter. I thought we might have a chat."

"Of course, Professor."

Minerva McGonagall, in spite of her weakened state, was an intimidating presence, and Harry was loathe to say no to her. She was a bit confused when the lady led her down a corridor she had never before seen to a pair of red double doors with "iron-work" wrought of a green metal.

"Constant vigilance," the professor announced before the doors, which swung open to reveal a spacious hall flanked by two large windows. 

The chamber was tastefully furnished in rich fabrics and heavy wooden furniture, and it featured a magnificent fireplace at its center. Harry could see other doors at intervals along the far walls.

"You will have the sunrise from that window," McGonagall said, indicating the panes to her left, "and the moonrise from that one. Do sit down by the fire."

Settling herself into a comfortable, green velvet chair, Harry accepted a cup of tea. 

"Have you recently renovated your quarters?"

"Oh, no, dear. These aren't _my_ quarters. They're _yours_."

_Does she look_ nervous? "I apologize, Professor—"

"Call me Minerva, dear."

"Oh. Thank you. _Minerva_ , I was under the impression that my rooms were in the dungeons."

"And so they _were_ , but Professor Snape felt that you would be more comfortable with your own space. You have a kitchen, a workroom with connected storerooms, a bath, naturally, a small guest chamber and bath, a classroom—though why that is necessary with all of the space in here is beyond me—and, of course, a bedroom. Oh! You also have a rather large balcony that affords you a masterful view of the Quidditch field if you cast an Extendus Visio charm on yourself. That is off your bed chamber."

"I don't understand. Why do I have a classroom?"

"No one expects you to start right away, of course, but I know that Albus would like you to begin teaching Defense Against the Dark Arts when you are ready. . . . Cheese biscuit?"

Harry took the bread, feeling bewildered. 

"Is that why . . . Sev—I mean, Professor Snape—has decided that I shouldn't . . . ."

"Severus recommended you for the position, dear."

"He did? I . . . I should thank him," Harry said, half rising. _I've got to find out why he—oh! He must think, he must believe that I'll choose Charlie over him._ "I should go see him."

"I'm afraid that will be quite impossible, as Severus has taken a leave of absence." _And a good thing, too_ , she thought crossly.

A knock echoed in the room. Someone was at the door. Minerva looked at Harry expectantly.

"Oh! It's _my_ . . . room. Come in!"

McGonagall took her leave as Sirius and Remus entered.

"I don't think you outstayed your welcome, no," her godfather assured her sometime later. "I think everything finally . . . caught up with Sev, and he needed to get away."

Remus added, "And he wouldn't have considered it hospitable to leave you alone down there. . . . Don't you like your quarters?"

"I haven't even seen them, yet. They're very grand. I can't imagine being used to such surroundings—and I don't actually _deserve_ them, do I?"

"Whatever can you mean by that?" Sirius asked.

"I'm not a teacher here, am I?"

"Oh, you will be, one day," Remus assured her.

Suddenly, Harry felt trapped. Had everyone in her life—she tried not to laugh thinking about it that way—simply decided her future for her? She did not care for it. After a tour of her chambers, she feigned sleepiness and bid her family goodnight. When she was alone, she called one name.

"Dobby!"

~*~

"—and I don't feel it is unreasonable for the Ministry to conduct an enquiry into the disappearance of the woman who was the last person to see Lucius Malfoy alive," finished Kingsley Shacklebolt. 

Arthur Weasley, Albus Dumbledore, and the Auror in question had decided that it would be wise if some members of the Ministry looked less favorably upon the Girl Who Lived in the aftermath of the war. It would allow certain . . . elements someone to contact if they desired to get up to mischief, and this would reveal the enemies that they all knew were out there. Arthur found himself wishing that Shacklebolt would not play his role of sceptic quite so convincingly.

"I'm afraid that I have to agree with Shacklebolt—in the interests of justice, of course. I know that Potter is innocent of Malfoy's murder, Albus, but there were . . . irregularities in her apprehension of him, and we need to discuss these issues," Arthur said.

"Unfortunately, even if we knew where Miss Potter was she would be in no position to assist with your inquiry. Her memories have not returned."

Balthazar Zabini, Blaise's paternal uncle, coughed loudly. He had taken Lucius Malfoy's place on the Board of Governors of Hogwarts' School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. 

"So you say, Dumbledore, but perhaps the situation has changed."

"In any case, I'll need to find her first," Shacklebolt insisted.

"Well then, if there is nothing else, I believe we all know what we have to do now," Ministry Weasley asserted.

No meaningful looks of any kind were exchanged in front of Zabini as the meeting ended.

~*~

Harry Potter had said that she would write to Dobby, so he had persuaded her to take Hedwig with her when she left.

The elf had noticed how reproachful of her master the owl had been, and had caught himself thinking that it should ram its beak into a wall for disloyalty before he remembered himself. _I is free and so is the owl—and Harry Potter doesn't mind_. The house elf did, however, find the anger of various members of the staff to be a bit overwhelming when his mistress was discovered to be missing and he was pressed about his knowledge of her whereabouts.

"Dobby is not to say where Harry Potter has gone!" the house elf insisted stubbornly.

It was the middle of November when _he_ came to see the elf. Dobby was prepared to speak to Harry Potter's friend, but only because the man did not press him for any information about the girl. Indeed, he seemed to know all about her, and, wonder of wonders, he had brought a letter!

"Now, I believe Miss Potter was sincere when she requested that you write immediately to tell her how her godfather and Remus are faring in her absence."

"Dobby will do it now, sir!"

When he had finished writing, the elf excused himself to take his letter to the Owlery.

Intercepting Dobby's response to Harry was not as easy as the Auror had imagined. The strong brown bird was determined to retain its clew to the girl's whereabouts. _Wings don't best wand_ , he thought, and soon, he was in possession of four new quills and one piece of parchment. He set down in a field in Hogsmeade to read his prize.

The noise of the hundreds of angry owls alerted Blaise to his arrogant presumption scant moments later.


	7. Chapter Six: The Comfort of Family

"I thought that I would have to kill her, you know," Severus slurred drunkenly over his mug.

He had not moved away from Snape Manor fast enough, and Granny Jasper had caught him by the garden gate of the dower house and dragged him in for a coze.

"You should check that reaction in yourself, boy," the old lady said sharply.

Severus snorted. He felt oddly at home with Granny Jasper as they drank old Scotch and reminisced. In his youth, he had always found his paternal grandmother, when she was home from one of her frequent jaunts to places unknown, rather terrifying. 

The lady glared at him with affection. " _Do_ you intend to speak to your mother before you go?"

" _Hell_ no."

"Mind your tongue when addressing a lady, boy, or I'll feed it to Bertram."

Looking mildly vexed, she stroked the furry fox stole about her neck which Severus knew from boyhood to be both enchanted and sharply fanged.

Somehow the threat wasn't as frightening as it used to be. It was certainly nothing to what his childhood had been.

The fighting only stopped when they were out of earshot of one another, and Severus made a point of keeping more than an arm's length away from either of his parents. Meals were sullen affairs. His father, if he could be made to speak, spoke of the Ministry's incompetence, the contamination of the old blood lines, and the myriad ways in which his wife and his son were unworthy of bearing the Snape name. His mother never spoke at meals, but her screaming complaints scraped across Severus' ears as they filled the corridor of the family wing of the manor at night.

He never fully understood why they did not keep separate rooms until he was much older. And what he had seen on his fourth Yuletide visit home had been neatly explained by Lucius when school started again after the holiday. 

"Some people like a bit of the rough stuff, you know." 

Lucius always seemed to know everything. Severus wished he had not been such an eager student to the other boy's teaching. But some lessons had come in handy, particularly when, on his sixteenth birthday, he had found his mother about to draw an heirloom blade over her husband's throat.

Hexing his mother had not been part of the planned celebration, but it had made his father grateful. It had made his father notice him. 

This had made Severus want to please his father.

Severus wondered how life might have been different for him if his father had been as careful of Lord Voldemort as _he_ had been of his father.

_Oh, dear. It's a wonder the boy managed to have any career at all the way his wits wander so freely_. "Severus?"

"Yes, Grandmother?"

"I've enjoyed our little chat, boy, but I believe it's time for you to explain yourself while you're still able to do so. I was just packing when you arrived—"

"I did not arrive so much as I was sent—"

The shattering of his glass caused Severus to stop speaking. Light caught in the shards and bubbles of liquor as they bobbed in a scattered pattern just centimeters before his face.

"Now then, part of keeping that civil tongue is knowing when to hold it. Interrupting a lady is inappropriate, dear."

The pieces of glass glinted at Severus, and he found himself sober enough in that moment to remember why he had always found his grandmother so alarming.

"Do forgive me, Granny Jasper."

"Gracefully put," the lady said, gesturing toward the suspended shards and liquid with a perfected air of feigned indifference so that Severus found himself in possession of a glass of Scotch again.

It transformed into a cup of tea almost immediately.

"Thank you."

"You're welcome."

~*~

George finished dabbing the blood from Blaise's face and began to coat the scratches on it with an antiseptic potion. 

"You should have known better than to steal mail from an owl, you git. Don't you learn anything of use at the novitiate?"

"Could you be a little more gentle, there, Weasley? Some of the wounds are deep."

"Fred'll kill me if he knows I've helped you, so _no_. We've got to make this fast."

"Thanks, George."

" _Weasley_ is fine."

Blaise looked away miserably. He had not intended to be found before finding Harry, but the noise of the Hogwarts mail owls had alerted almost the entirety of Hogsmeade to his presence. George had been sent to find him. The residents were still keeping a watchful eye on the land in and around town.

"Where is Fred?"

"Off in Larksbottom seeing to Pansy. Neville asked us to keep an eye on her."

"And how is Pansy?"

"Not as inconsolable as one might imagine."

"She never did enjoy being on her own."

~*~

"Tagliaferro, how delightful to see you," Rosmerta said in a monotone as the sepulchral form of the other vampire entered the Three Broomsticks.

"We may dispense with the civilities, if you like."

"Excellent. What do you want?"

"Mrs. Zabini has no desire for her son to become entangled in an . . . unproductive friendship. She expects Blaise to marry decently and produce heirs."

Rosmerta laughed, replying, "That will be an interesting task for the boy. Of course, Draco _might_ be persuaded to play daddy to Blaise's mommy . . . ."

Tagliaferro curled his lip in disgust. 

"You never _were_ amusing."

"You never _did_ have a sense of humor."

"It wasn't required in my old line of work."

"No, just a tolerance for fire. Life _is_ ironic, isn't it?"

"Would that you could forge an appropriate response to my message, I would be grateful."

"Tell my . . . cousin that she may forbid me anything she feels it is within her power to prevent me from doing."

"You would ruin the boy, then?"

"I would love him."

"So you say—to us all."

A rare pang of conscience troubled the publican as she considered the being before her. 

"I didn't know that you'd be so . . . set in your ways when I brought you to me."

"Yes, so you've explained, and I shall always take comfort in the knowledge that I was one of your _many_ mistakes."

"And would you care for me to _correct_ that mistake?"

Tagliaferro considered her implication. 

"No, I thank you. Good night, Oldest."

_Incorrect, you insolent whelp_. "Do _not_ return, young one."

"As you wish."

_Where_ is _my Blaise_? Rosmerta thought, and she would have shrieked the rafters from the rooftop if she believed doing so would have cheered her. 

But tantrums were rarely comforting without an audience.

~*~

"—and I expect I could have used your instruction on the appropriate treatment of women long before now."

"It's just as well, dear. Vampires can't give you children."

Severus starred at Granny Jasper. Having just related an almost-unedited version of his relationship with Rosmerta to the lady, he was dumbfounded that her main concern was for the preservation of their family line.

"Did you really believe I would be content without great-grandchildren, boy?"

He had no response to that. Granny Jasper smiled. 

"Tell me more about Ree Potter."

Before he could register the thought in his mind, it came tumbling from his lips: "She doesn't love me."

The bitter, tin-coated laugh of Trillare Snape reverberated from the door. 

"Of course she doesn't."

As an old remembered habit caused one of Severus' slender, pale hands to fly to his throat seeking the bit of hammered gold that he no longer wore, one of his grandmother's plump, pink hands appeared to pass through white honey rather than air as she waved it toward his mother's fashionably gaunt form. Trillare flew into the frame of the door. The sound of her head hitting the wood rang in Severus' ears.

The sound of his mother falling to the floor, and Granny Jasper's robes rustling as she resettled herself into her chair heralded the reorienting of time. When his senses had righted themselves, he realized that his grandmother was spinning an ash wood wand in her hands and peering at him in curiosity.

"Is that true, dear?"

"Is what true, grandmother?" Severus asked, already halfway out of his chair.

"Leave her, boy. The murderous whore knows better than to pass through my garden gate."

"I do not wish to be . . . discourteous, Granny Jasper, but I must see to my mother."

"Tch! As you will," the old witch said, pouring herself a cup of tea from a recently materialized bone china pot. 

Examining his mother, he found her to be merely unconscious, and turned his head to look at his grandmother. 

"I should return her to the house."

"Done."

Severus felt the body of his mother disappear from his hands and was reminded of his having been "sent" to Snape Manor by Albus. 

" _How_ did you do that? _What_ did you do? And how . . . _what_ happened before? Time seemed to . . . thicken, and—"

Granny Jasper chuckled. 

"You need not bother over such things. I simply willed Trillare elsewhere, and, as far as my little demonstration is concerned, let us merely say that the old lady to whom you are kind today is the experienced witch who may _not_ carve out your heart tomorrow. . . . You should be grateful that your vampire was feeling charitable."

Severus sat down at the table feeling a bit like an oft-lectured school boy. 

"I have not behaved as I ought, I suppose."

"We never do when we're in love."

"I did not love Rosmerta, Grandmother."

"No, you _didn't_."

Severus flushed.

A sudden shriek startled them both.

"Mother's awake."

"Yes. . . . Twiddle!"

A house elf wearing a black silk bag appeared next to Granny Jasper's chair. 

"The mistress sends for Twiddle?"

"Yes. Twiddle, finish my packing and have my bags taken to the Toll House. I shall apparate there later."

Twiddle popped from the room immediately.

"Now then, how do you know that Miss Potter does not love you?"

~*~

_Perhaps I'm over-thinking things_ , Harry worried to herself as she watched the evening's travelers find their way toward various night-time diversions.

The young woman was sitting in a Muggle café that was convenient to her hotel, sipping the last of a glass of Scotch, surreptitiously searching the faces of the people situated around her, and sorting through the bits of memory that she had in her possession. Everything felt confused. Time seemed to be flowing too quickly. And she knew that she was being watched.

A waiter interrupted her reverie by setting a cup of coffee down in front of her. It smelled of cardamom. 

_I_ love _spiced coffee_.

"The gentleman at the far table asked me to present this to you with his compliments."

Impulsively, she replied, "Thank the gentleman, and ask him if he'd care to join me."

A tall, slender, silver-haired young man carrying a steaming mug of the same coffee strolled leisurely across the colored tiles to her table. His long, expensive-looking coat was draped across his shoulders, which hid the fact that he was missing his right arm until just before he sat down.

"Shock you, does it?" he asked in a mildly bitter tone.

"Not at all. Did you lose it in the war?"

"You remember the war?"

"No. Do you know me?"

"Forgive me. My name is Malcolm Lézard, and you are Miss Potter?"

"Please call me Ree," she said, shaking her new acquaintance's hand.

"And I am Mal. I had not thought to encounter another . . . compatriot in this part of London."

"Nor had I, but it's not unpleasant to have found one."

"Agreed."

Ree sipped her coffee. 

"This is excellent. Thank you."

"It was always one of your favorites."

"Ah, so we _do_ know one another."

"Forgive me. I know from the papers that your memory is not complete. I shouldn't have disturbed you, but I couldn't help feeling some . . . concern when I saw you here, and—"

"Mr. Lézard—Mal—I would enjoy talking for awhile to an . . . old school friend?"

He inclined his head in acquiescence.

"After all, I hardly know what to do with myself."

Mal smiled slowly in understanding. "I thought a . . . vacation would suit me, as well."

"And how have you been spending your time?"

"Trying not to think."

"Then perhaps we should drink to the absence of memory," Ree suggested.

Mal raised his mug to return Harry's toast. 

"For however long it may last." 

~*~

"Do you truly believe it was Dumbledore's nepenthe that helped the child settle into herself?"

"Of course. What else could it have been?"

"Do you not feel that your kindness may have allowed the girl some ease?"

"It was almost immediate, Grandmother. Harry herself—"

"Ree. Isn't that what she wishes to be called?"

"Her _friends_ refer to her by that name."

"I see." _Oh, you delightfully stupid boy_! "Go on."

"Harry herself said to me not long after he gave her the forgetting draught that it was difficult remembering what it was like to be a boy. I merely gave her house room."

"Severus, do you love this girl?"

"That is beside the point."

"Do you love her?"

"Granny . . . . She was my student. She was a child. She . . . she deserves to be happy. . . . It would be _wrong_ to love her."

"So, you're desperately in love with her, then. Oh, dear."

Severus frowned into his cup of tea. He felt like a child himself sitting here with his grandmother. _A lost child. Lonely_.

"Not to rush you, boy, but I do have a long journey ahead of myself, and you need to find other accommodations. I suggest you spend some time amongst Muggles for awhile. It always gives one tremendous perspective."

"I am ill-suited for holidays."

"In that," the lady said, indicating his severe black coat, "I certainly agree. There are many fine tailors in the Muggle and Wizarding worlds alike. Why not make use of one of them?"

A raised eyebrow was the only response Granny Jasper received. Laughing, she rose from her chair to hug her surprised grandson. 

At his start, she kissed him and declared, "That's my good boy. . . . I've missed our chats."

"As have I," Severus told her earnestly, allowing himself to relax into his grandmother's embrace.

"The absence of boundaries," she whispered into his hair.

"Pardon me?"

"When one acknowledges that the world is actually the absence of boundaries—that we create our own in order to make sense out of and control the world—then one may accomplish much that is impossible, my dear."

"Why do women insist on speaking in riddles?"

"Because men do enjoy playing their little games."

~*~

The Quiet would never be quite so again, Albus thought, as the voices surged against the edges of his perceptions. He could clearly discern a familiar and beloved voice, though he could not, as yet, _see_ Minerva.

"What's this kerfuffle? Out! Out, I say!"

When her image became clear in his mind's eye, Albus saw that his lover was wearing her hair down over a long, loose, dark blue velvet gown. The whiteness of her surroundings was interrupted by a thick carpet of reds and golds on which were arranged several pieces of heavy leather furniture. A fire crackled merrily from the place most likely to hold a hearth, though none was in evidence. And flittering in and out of Minerva's "room" were tiny little black birds.

"Damnation, Mr. Longbottom! You should not be playing with the things if you cannot control them!"

An echo of childish laughter was the only response she received from the birds' creator.

"Come now, Merva. He's just a little boy."

The witch spun to face Albus, and he caught his breath. He had expected her to appear much younger than she did, but never as beautiful as he found her: Minerva had adopted the figure she had held when first they met, and her clear-eyed, slightly wrinkled, half-merry, forty-year-old face was dazzling.

"Glad you like it, man. It's what you get," she replied tartly.

Taking her into his arms, he replied, "It's all I want."

Minerva gently disentangled herself from their embrace many moments later, and said, "Albus, it isn't time. You're not yet here, you know."

He was stroking Fawkes' tail when he returned to the condition of his true present.

"Ah, my friend. It shouldn't seem so long, but . . . ."

The phoenix squawked affectionately.

"You always were impatient," said a familiar voice from his desk chair.

The old wizard laughed softly. 

"I, impatient?"

"But I never thought to see you tired. Tell me your theory of life, _now_."

"Ro," Albus said hesitantly. "I would not hurt you."

"Do you believe that you can?"

_Best not to answer that_.

"Godrixibus always had something to say. And usually to a large crowd."

"Indeed. And Godric was a dreadful show-off, as well."

"Rosantha and Rowena had their moments."

"Yes, and I was pleased to share in so many of them."

They smiled at each other, more family than friends—almost. And then they were three.

"Hello, Poppy," Rosmerta said.

"Is it Poppy tonight?" the other witch asked equably.

"Does it matter?" Albus asked.

"Is this goodbye?"

"Not quite leave-taking, though goodbyes could come now, I suppose."

"Then we're one short, aren't we?" Poppy asked.

"Don't start that nonsense again, Helga," Rosmerta growled.

"You're the one who maintains her present state in order that he be remembered, you widgeon. It would be a simple matter to disenchant you, and you know it."

"Ah, but Ro enjoys being enchanting," Albus replied.

Poppy snorted in disgust. 

"The two of you were always annoyingly affectionate, and always at the most inappropriate of times!"

"Need I remind you about Grashthaten, Hel?"

Poppy blushed. 

"I had no idea that his lust for . . . for jewelry would prove so destructive!"

"Yes, it was jewelry he wanted."

"It's not as though dark wizards wear signs about their necks, you know. He seemed like such a nice chap."

"He seemed _hung_ , Poppy. At least remember your reasons correctly."

" _Ladies_ ," Albus interrupted.

"Where?" demanded both Rosmerta and Poppy with one voice.

~*~

"—over there," Harry said, indicating a tall man with mahogany colored hair. "I'm certain he must be the person who's been watching me all evening."

"No. That fortunate individual was I."

Harry blushed.

Mal's left hand twitched as if he would raise it to stroke Harry's face. 

"Recherché," he murmured, stilling himself.

"I'm sorry?"

"Don't be. . . . The gentleman staring us down is an old friend of mine, and he's only just arrived. Would you excuse me for one moment?"

"Of course."

Harry watched Mal cross the patio with a carefully balanced grace, and wondered what topic he and his "friend" were discussing. The blandly pleasant expressions on their faces told her that they did not particularly care for one another now, if they ever truly had.

_Stop trying to be insightful, you idiot._

Rather than think, Harry opened her mind a bit to see if she could catch the surface thoughts of her fellow patrons, something she had been allowing herself to do more and more since leaving the school. It had been overwhelming at first, and four times she'd delved a little too deeply, but, in recent weeks, her skill and control were increasing. Nothing reached her. She felt a bit muzzy, in fact. It was as if the sensing portion of her head was stuffed with cotton.

_How odd. . . . How_ stupid!

She had not stopped paying attention to the thoughts of others until Mal had joined her.

_Until Mal sent me the coffee_ , she realized.

Harry glanced quickly toward the bank of ferns that shielded the café from the street. Mal and his companion were still in an intense conversation.

_Oh, I hate to do this_ , Harry thought, rummaging through her purse until she found a small silver mirror. _I made such a fuss about wanting to be on my own_. Looking into it and pretending to apply lipstick, she hissed, "Psst!"

Sirius' worried face appeared to replace her own reflection almost immediately. Harry laughed.

_He must be carrying his around all the time, as well_.

Adjusting her mirror so that her godfather could see over her shoulder, she whispered, "Do you recognize the tall, silver-haired wizard standing by the bushy plants? Do you know his friend?

Alarm drained the color from Sirius' face. 

"Get out of there, now, Harry!"

Without comment, the young witch replaced the mirror into her bag, pulled a few crisp bills from her wallet and laid them on the table, and then walked smartly toward the open doors of the restaurant which were crowded with people going in and coming out. 

No one noticed the popping sound as she apparated behind the body of a large waiter.


	8. Chapter Seven: Warning Signs and Lullabies

Remus had suspected that it was too late the night he and Sirius had arrived at Snape's quarters to have their first meal cooked by Ree. He had not known if the Potions master would be joining them, or not; he had hoped so, if only to help his lover grow used to the other man's presence in his godchild's life.

_"Is that fighting?" Sirius demanded as they knocked on the door to Snape's rooms._

_It was._

_Through the door, the sounds of an argument could be clearly heard. Remus uttered the temporary password, which Ree had given them through the fireplace barely above an hour before, and he and Sirius walked quickly toward the kitchen._

_"—and if_ you _actually measured your ingredients_ after _ascertaining that they were the correct ones_ , perhaps _these things would not happen!" Severus sputtered, the remains of what looked and smelled like a spiced wine sauce covering him._

_Sirius would have burst into laughter but for Remus' hand suddenly clamping over his mouth._

_"And if you kept_ your _potion ingredients out of_ my _pantry, I_ know _they wouldn't!" Ree spat back._

_"How dare you take that tone with me?"_

_"How dare you insist that_ I _cook, give_ me _the responsibility of the kitchen, and then interfere with my ingredients?"_

_Oh, no, thought Remus. Severus'll shred her._

_"Potter!" Severus exclaimed, dabbing at his hair and coat with a dish towel, "I have already informed you many times since you tried to smother me with this_ middling _sauce of shiraz and eggs that Blue-Bile Demon Toad claws are considered a delicacy by those chefs with the sense to make_ proper _use of them. You clearly do not possess the skill or the temperament to work with an ingredient of this quality."_

_Harry's mouth had formed an angry moue, and her eyes narrowed._

_"Fine then, if you don't want my cooking, don't eat it!"_

_She reached into her back pocket for her wand, pointed it at the pan, and yelled, "_ Scourgify _!" before racing down the corridor to her room._

_Severus started as the sound of Harry's door slamming met his ears._

_"BRAT!"_

_Remus dragged Sirius back to the door of Snape's chambers just in time to avoid that man as he stormed down the hall to slam his own door._

_"Red's a decent color on him," Sirius allowed with a mischievous smirk._

_"_ You _are an idiot."_

_Sirius' mood, as it often did, suddenly changed._

_"He_ cannot _talk to her that way!"_

_"She held her own."_

_"But Remus—"_

_"You know that we can't interfere. You said it yourself, Harry needs to learn to live with him."_

_Sirius sighed heavily._

_"Let's take a walk and let them cool off. . . . I've always wanted to see the Slytherin common room, you know."_

_"Sirius . . . ."_

_When they returned, the scene in the kitchen was quite different._

_"—just like that," Severus was telling Ree in a gentle voice, one hand over hers._

_The two men watched as the Potions master guided Ree's blade over a knobby grain of Blue-Bile Demon Toad claw in the precise way needed to slice it open without allowing its outer coating to mix with its inner fibrous membrane._

_"When prepared fresh, rather than used in powdered form, the explosive properties of the claws are better controlled."_

_"I still think that Hungarian hot paprika would do just as well."_

_"That is because you lack my expertise."_

_"_ Expertise? _In the kitchen?"_

_"Easy, Potter . . . ."_

_"Forgive me, Professor Snape, but we'd_ die _if not for the house elves'—or_ my— _cooking!"_

_"It was unintentional!"_

_"_ Of course _it was_. Everyone _uses poisonous herbs to make omelets."_

_"Fire Flax and oregano are very similar in appearance."_

_"Again, if you'd stop storing potion ingredients in our_ kitchen— _"_

_Remus felt his lover stiffen at the "our" and braced himself for a scene._

_"Good evening!" Sirius aggressively sang from the doorway. "What smells so_ good? _"_

Severus and Ree had been completely taken aback by the interruption of their guests.

Their _guests_ , Remus thought, brooding in his own kitchen. _I should have realized it sooner. I should have done something_!

But he had not, and now Ree had run away because Severus had done the same.

_Idiots_. "This is a nightmare."

"Not quite," Sirius replied, walking into the room. "I've been to the restaurant. Tonks tells me that Malfoy hadn't time to add anything to Ree's drink. She watched him constantly."

"But where _is_ Ree? And what was _Blaise_ doing there? And how the hell is it that Draco Malfoy is still alive?"

"All excellent questions, Lupin. What has happened?"

_Now that's exactly what I've been waiting for_ you _to tell_ me, _Severus_.

~*~

Harry stood before an exhibit on Egyptian life in the British Museum. She was dimly aware of a tour guide answering the questions of a group of half-interested school children there on an educational excursion. The boys were shuffling their feet, the girls were giggling, and the teachers were paying more attention to the displays than to their charges.

"[Cleopatra was a Parselmouth, you know]," murmured a gentleman beside her in a sibilant whisper.

"Pardon me?"

"[Indeed]," the man replied, pressing on with no further introduction, "[she spoke so elegantly that the Romans who loved her never understood that they were being cursed]."

"Have we met, Sir?" Harry asked the man, who she understood, though she was certain he was speaking in a foreign tongue.

"[And they think the witch poisoned herself by the sting of an asp, do they, these foolish Muggles? Ridiculous]."

"What's a Parselmouth?"

"[Usually a great hisser]," he replied, with a dry chuckle for Harry's confusion. "[Do forgive me. I never could resist a pun. You're an improvement, though you'll have to look a little less pale and slightly more plump if you ever hope to compare to the ancient queen herself. Well, perhaps not. She has been dead long enough that even the best mummy makers couldn't have preserved all that hennaed flesh—not that I had the privilege, you understand. I'm not that old. Oh, quite right. Perhaps I am that old. But we didn't travel quite so much in earlier days, you know]."

"Are you saying that I'm a Parselmouth?"

"[Oh, my—have you been eating the beef? I hear that's to be avoided these days]."

"The beef?"

"[It's just that I don't know how else to explain your lack of spark—well, despite the obvious explanation, of course—and holes in the brain would do it]."

"Now you're calling me stupid?"

"[Ah! Not so spongy after all—probably the witch in you, or what's left of it—blood will out, you know. . . . Or perhaps you're merely hungry. I'm usually terribly peckish this time of day, myself. Could do with some of that beef, despite the risks]."

The room emptied and Harry edged away from the doddering old man next to her. He did not follow. He did not need to. His voice issued from her own head a moment later.

_[Go home little girl]_.

"GET OUT OF MY HEAD!" screamed Harry, half-frantic as she realized that the old man was now nowhere in the room.

With a start, it occurred to her that the gentleman in question had been shadowing her through the galleries for weeks. 

_Why am I only now noticing this?_

_[Why, indeed? And who shall we blame for your inattention to pertinent details? Your professors? Your masters? Yourself]?_

The clatter of her shoes crossing the tile sounded Harry's answer as she fled the exhibit, the museum, and then the city itself.

_Riddle, Grindelwald, Grashthaten, the earlier failures_ —none _of them would have made proper serpent food—and the latest little power house is looking_ decidedly _unpromising, hissed a large green and black snake to itself as it slithered into a display of death masks. Why_ do _the Dark Gods insist on gifting the unworthy with such power_?

~*~

Fleeing, a memory came to Ree, one in which she was a boy.

_"Where do you go?" Ron asked him._

_He was lying on the other boy's bed in the dormitory, and Ron's question perplexed him._

_"What?"_

_"When you sneak out, lately—where do you go?"_

_Harry sat up and sucked his lower lip into his mouth a moment before answering._

_"I just walk around, Ron. Can't sleep. Don't want to bother you guys. So I just walk around."_

Cor, you're a bad liar, _Harry "heard" the other boy think._

_"That's what I thought," Ron said. "Care for a little chess before bed?"_

_"Nah, I'm still knackered from the new training regimen," Harry replied, concentrating._

Quidditch practice was cancelled today, _Ron thought_ , not believing his friend. Is that what you call it? Training? 

_"I guess I'll have a game of Exploding Snap with Dean then. . . . Goodnight."_

_Harry closed the curtains around the bed before dawning her invisibility cloak. He hoped it would be enough to fool her friend when he returned to bed, but she felt Ron watching the portrait hole suspiciously as she left._

I hate lying to you, _he thought_. But you'd never understand about Malfoy.

The young woman stopped running. _I don't think that_ I _understand about Malfoy_.

For she had just realized who the man to whom she had been speaking at the café was. But she wanted to know more about Ron.

More about myself, she thought, turning into an alley.

She needed to think.

~*~

Neville was helping Blaise to compose himself, and Ron was assiduously _not_ noticing his training partner's distress, though he did not blame him for it. The blood was everywhere. Ron had given up his attempts to brush off the sticky bits because this only made them squish into his clothing or begin to feel almost . . . recognizable. Harry was standing by herself near the pile of bodies they had collected after Blaise had cast his unauthorized offensive spell. She was staring at the remains of two particular bodies with an expression that Ron knew pretty well by now. He joined her and laid a gentle arm around his friend.

_"Where do you go?"_

_"Just—" Harry began sharply before stopping herself. "Just . . . inside."_

_"It's only killing, you know. Defense. You've done it before."_

_"This wasn't killing, Ron. It was butchery."_

_"Fifteen to four. We had to do something, or we'd be dead, and they'd still be Death Eaters."_

No one had expected a fight when Master Moody had sent his alpha squad from Novitiate One to the Ministry to demonstrate their skills to various members of the new Department on Emergency Auror Development, headed by Percy Weasley. 

_"He'll really enjoy this," Ron grumbled—for the thousandth time in a week._

_"Stow it, Weasley. Percy'll be fair," Neville insisted._

_"And none of us want to hear it anymore," said Blaise._

_Ree laughed as Ron flew closer to her and pulled on her brush's broom._

_"I'll bet_ you _agree with me, Harry."_

_Casting a surreptitious smirk in Blaise's direction, the witch flew above and back over Ron to quickly place herself behind him, and then yanked on his broom's brush._

_"Hey!" Ron yelled, giving chase to Ree as she flew low and quickly away from her friends to skim the treetops beneath them._

_"They're going to be seen!"_

_"I doubt it, Neville. The invisibility charm we cast should hold until we arrive."_

_"Yeah, well, they're still_ loud. _"_

The masked figures had been making rather a lot of noise as they tortured a young wizard in the clearing in which Ron and the others found themselves. The surprising nature of their attack had helped the four Aurors-in-training free the young man, but his wounds had proved fatal.

_"I tried to cast the Crumus charm on their brooms, not their bodies," Harry whispered in horror._

_"Yeah, I know that—we all do. . . . You get that spell from your master?"_

_"Yes. In the old days it was a useful defense against staking."_

_"I imagine so," Ron replied._

_"I was so angry. When these two put their hands on Blaise, I was so angry that—"_

_Harry stopped talking. She knew that Ron did not like or trust Blaise any more than he did Draco, but also that he thought Zabini was a tremendous improvement over the "King of Ferrets," as he called Malfoy. She knew that he had tried to be supportive, remembering how he had asked "Tall, Dark, and Disturbed" to be his battle partner. She was aware that Ron had also done this because it allowed him to keep an eye on her, for she had not been herself of late._

And this shit's not going to help her any, is it? _she heard Ron think._

_The young man turned his friend toward him and tilted up her head with a gentle hand._

_"You listen, okay?"_

_Harry nodded._

" _It's okay that you got mad. It's okay that you killed them. Zabini was angry, as well, and you don't fault him for his spell."_

_"That's because he was in control of his magic."_

Harry remembered now how badly out of control her magic had been before her additional training with the Old One, and her thoughts scattered a bit before she returned to the memory she had conjured.

_Ron drew Harry into an embrace, and held her until her heart stopped hammering, held her until the threat of tears had passed, held her until the medi-witches and Aurors arrived to deal with the dead and debrief the living._

_None of them missed the look in Hermione's eyes as she made a perfect landing without seeing the ground, focused as she was on the tableau presented by her best friends._

Been there. Felt that, _Harry heard Blaise think bitterly._

"Oh," she whispered, rubbing her arms against the chill of the evening—and the feeling of unease that she was experiencing. "How could I have missed that?"

It dawned upon Harry then that the answers she sought, and the peace for which she wished, could be better found at home.

~*~

At Hogwarts, someone else was sifting through memories and thoughts. 

_"Where do you go?" Ron asked Hermione. "When you die, I mean."_

Screaming, the frightened young woman had missed her lover's question, Albus remembered, feeling the guilt of it, even now.

_He knew that Ron felt the warmth slide along his skin in places, felt the wetness, knew that it was blood, but that the boy did not understand what he was chanting over him._

_He heard Ron think_ , Is that music? Is it singing? I'm certain it must be . . . .

Surfacing from his memory, the wizard wondered, _Do you like their song, my boy_?

He wished that he could bring Ron away from the music, but it was not yet time.

~*~

"—and where you go when you sleep is a warm, safe, place of pixie peace—just so long as you don't pull their wings," Hermione crooned softly to Percy, who was nestled securely in her arms.

"That's lovely."

"Molly taught it to me. She says that it was Ron's favorite until he was old enough to understand the words."

Ree smiled. "Marazelle was telling me how horrid the garden pixies were to her before she and her cousin arrived the other day."

"Marazelle is a sweet girl, but mischievous. I'm sure she's told me before that she teased those pixies of hers. When did you see her?"

"Her cousin brought her to see the school. She's starting there in the fall."

"And what did you think of Blaise Zabini?" Hermione asked, laying the baby in his crib and turning to lead her friend quietly out of the nursery.

The little cottage in Hogsmeade that the young haruspex had rented for herself was snug, dry, and close to the home of Evie Toadhopple, the witch from whom she was receiving the last of her divination training.

No one ever mentioned the fact that it overlooked the spot in which Ron had died.

The two friends sat down and Hermione summoned tea.

"Well?"

"He's very charming," Ree replied guardedly.

"'Charming'?"

"I used to date him, didn't I?"

"'Date' is really an insufficient term in this case."

"Merlin knows I hate not knowing! It's like wandering about in a fog!" Ree exclaimed, wondering if she should tell her friend about her memories, which seemed to rise unbidden—and in which she thought she might lose herself.

Sometimes, it felt as if she were two places at once, and the witch was not sure how to deal with the odd, frightening feelings this situation engendered in her.

The sound of Percy fretting could be heard in the next room, and Hermione made to rise from her chair.

"No—please. I'll go. I'm the one who unsettled him."

Leaving Hermione to her tea, Ree wrapped Percy into a blanket and lifted him onto her shoulder.

He drooled in greeting.

"Where does all your spit come from?"

Percy burped his reply.

"Oh, gods! What _is_ Hermione eating? Don't worry, Butter Tummy—I don't blame _you_ ," Ree told the baby, turning him so that he lay across her left arm.

She sat down in the rocker and considered him in the soft light of the baby-safe, no-drip, _odorless_ , candles that floated sparsely about the room. It was a source of unexpected comfort to be holding a baby, and she had spent as much time with baby Percy of late as was possible.

The fluttering of light lashes over sleepy blue eyes was the only response she received, which suited the amnesiac just fine.

When Ree was certain he was asleep, she placed the baby back into his bed, trying not to touch the bird mobile that floated above their heads.

"Sleep tight," she whispered, certain now that he would.

But the sound of bird song and baby giggle reached her at the threshold of the door, and turning, Ree saw Percy kicking the feathered, spinning, chirping toys with enthusiastic and chubby feet.

"Naughty boy! It's past time for you to be dreaming!" she admonished in amusement as she noticed a feather floating to the floor.

Kneeling to pick it up, she glanced at Percy through the slats of his crib only to find that he was gazing directly at her as if he wanted to communicate something of dreadful import. 

"Waiting," she breathed, feeling hot and panicked and cold and prickly.

Just as she managed to stand, Harry's memories welled up around her from the void in which they had hidden themselves with such force that she thought she would drown in them, and then the shock of sudden enlightenment plunged her into darkness.


	9. Chapter Eight: Growing Up and Other Options

"Potter," a voice said over her. " _Potter_."

Harry felt herself being shaken, though not roughly.

"Merlin, Potter. Are you just going to lie there?"

When she opened her eyes, both the orchard and the boy were familiar to her.

"Neville, you're yourself again! Why?"

"It's nice to see you, too—what am I saying? No, it isn't. . . . . Really, Harry, you've got to stop doing this to yourself."

"What are you talking about? Oh, gods!" she exclaimed as she realized and remembered several things at once.

_Cedric, he forgave me; there's a Parselmouth in the British Museum; I'm a godmother; Hermione was a haruspex; Severus is . . . some kind of vampire; they think I killed Lucius Malfoy; Draco is alive; Professor McGonagall is dying; and Ron . . . Ron's dead._ "No, no, no, no," Harry chanted, curling up into a protective ball and attempting to push her thoughts away.

~*~

A pretty, faded looking lady with kind eyes walked out of a dwelling of gingerbread and thatch and sought the form of a tall, frightened-looking young man. He was clutching a candied post, glaring at it as it slowly took on rough bark over its red stripes.

_Childhood never lasts as long as it should_. "It's the pain that makes it difficult to reach her, son."

"I can't just watch her writhing like that, Mum. I've got to _do_ something! Couldn't we try and find—"

"I told you to leave that idea alone. . . . Was it easy for you to watch your father and me suffer? Do you imagine what it would be like for the Potters to see their _child_ like this?"

Neville lowered his head in shame and desperation.

"She's my friend. I can't abandon her. I _won't_ abandon her."

"There are those who might help us beyond the Veil, but you risk losing yourself in undertaking the journey."

A flock of black birds abruptly descended around the young man. There were hundreds of them, and they all had hard, glittering, intelligent eyes.

"I'll have something better than breadcrumbs to help me find my way back to you, I think. Which direction is Out?"

~*~

Draco had refused to allow him to visit Malfoy Manor, but at least Blaise knew where the other wizard was staying.

Not that it really mattered, anymore.

_"When I took your arm, I thought you'd finally understand that you could trust me completely,"_ he read silently to himself. "No, that won't do. Damn it!"

"Perhaps, my Blaise, you should see him in person rather than littering the floor with these inadequate attempts to say what you mean. . . . What do you mean?"

"To reassure him of my friendship, Rosmerta, nothing more," he answered without looking away from the parchment in front of himself. _I_ almost _mean that_.

The publican smiled bitterly and placed her hands on her lover's shoulders before saying, " _Nothing_ more, Blaise."

Nothing _was_ more erotic for Blaise than the sound of a beautiful voice lowered in a tone of threatening jealousy.

He abandoned his letter writing in favor of a more immediate activity.

~*~

Hermione had not known anything was wrong until Evie Toadhopple had shown up at her door and rushed to Percy's room.

"I had a vision—a visitation—hurry!" the witch told her as she rushed past the new mother. Half a breath later, they were levitating Harry to the sofa in the parlor.

"The first thing we should do is find the Beginning," Evie said.

"The beginning?"

"With a capital "b," dear. Beginnings are, in general, very important—critical, one might say—but the Beginning—which is different for each subject, but still the same sort of moment for everyone—is that shocking point of departure when one has realized that it is all now Different, and it is from that point that life takes a turn, precisely because all is now Different."

"Different with a capital "d"?

Evie smiled as her acolyte seemed to grasp the clarity of her explanation with perfect understanding, and said, "Exactly, dear."

"And for Harry, that moment would be waking up as a girl?"

"Let's find out, shall we?" the more experienced haruspex asked, placing her right hand on the prone witch's forehead, and her left hand over the girl's heart.

~*~

A woman was shrieking. She thought it might be Madam Pomfrey. 

"— _did_ this to you, child?" was all she managed to catch of the yelling.

_I don't know_ , Harry thought, lying very still under soft covers. She tried to focus on what she knew without opening her eyes. She was certain that once she opened her eyes, Gryffindor was in for negative house points.

There was a really good smell emanating from the soft blankets—sort of like Earl Grey tea—and this was complemented by notes of bay—and something sharper and less defined.

She liked it.

The door closed and then, almost as quickly, it opened again, bringing with it a completely familiar voice. 

"Oh, no! Harry, no!"

_Is it really that bad?_

Sirius was screaming about how it was that he now had a goddaughter, and then she remembered.

It really was that bad.

The angry sound of Professor Snape's voice grew louder as he moved from the outer room into . . . his _room_ , Harry realized with a start. _Merlin has a sick sense of humor._

"Black, if you insist on having hysterics, pray do so away from the child."

_I am_ not _a child_! Harry thought, stiffening in indignation as the general mood descended into chaos.

_Oh_? asked a voice in her head. _What are you then, an ogre_?

_Maybe that would have been better, Professor Snape_ , she thought back.

"Don't be so dramatic, Potter."

~*~

Albus had almost finished his tale when the images had begun to pull his focus from entertaining Minerva.

" _Really_ , Albus, that's quite a tale."

"But Minerva, my dear, you _do_ believe me, don't you?"

"I expect that I will believe you. Eventually," the witch said primly. "It's a lot to take in, you know."

"Indeed, I have often felt it so," the man replied, trying to repress his concern for Harry, Severus, and many others.

"Albus?"

"Yes, my love?"

"What happened to Salazar Slytherin?"

But before he could explain that, his lover fell asleep.

_Severus' potion has done her a world of good_ , Albus thought, as he left Minerva.

He needed to speak to the haruspices before going to see Severus, who he knew would probably blame him for Ree's current condition, as well as everything else. But after his visit to Hogsmeade, Albus elected to have Hermione contact Severus. 

_I'll speak to him tomorrow_.

~*~

It was the next evening, however, before the old wizard found the time to visit the Potions master. 

"You mustn't overtax yourself," he admonished Severus as he entered that wizard's laboratory.

"Headmaster," Snape acknowledged, without turning away from his cauldron.

"Miss Toadhopple has informed me that all proceeds smoothly with Ree's memory reintegration."

"Thank you for keeping me informed."

"Come now, my boy, why not go to her?"

"Albus, with respect, I do not require your assistance to sort out my affairs."

_I'll leave that comment alone_. "Of course not, but—"

"Forgive me, but the next part of this potion requires my full concentration. If you would spell the door locked as you leave, I would be grateful."

Feeling unneeded and rather put-out, Albus returned to his rooms. _It's not as though I wished to meddle, anyway_.

Fawkes gave a reassuring chirrup before bursting into flames.

_Quite right, old fellow. Quite right_.

~*~

A memory burst into Severus' mind like one of the big, bubbles popping in the cauldron over which he was standing.

He was a boy, and his Granny Jasper was visiting. Severus loved his granny because, although she was contrary and quick to anger, she always had interesting stories to tell—stories that she deigned to tell him—and what was more, she always taught him something new about magic. Severus loved magic. He could not wait to be a grown-up wizard.

He saw himself rubbing his left eye as he sat curled up in one of the large leather chairs by his hearth. He was reading _Quidditch through the Ages_ , which his granny had brought him. He had thought that there was nothing so noble as a Quidditch player when he was a boy.

He remembered promising himself that he was going to do great things, and knowing that he could because his granny told him he would, but then he had fallen into a deep sleep; beatings had always made him tired.

Some hours later, he had awoken to the cold air and freezing worry that something was wrong. Granny had not come to kiss him good night. She always did that when she was visiting. 

In spite of the risk, the boy had decided that he would go to his grandmother's room and see to her.

_Seven is too old to be worried about a beating_ , he remembered himself thinking.

There were raised voices just on the other side of her door—Granny Jasper's and his father's.

_"You will not tell me how to rear my son in my own home, old woman!"_

_"Darling, please don't—aah!"_

_"Lay hands on your wife, do you? Lay hands on your son? You are a coward and_ no _wizard."_

_"I am the head of this family, and you will respect that fact!"_

_Granny Jasper threw back her head and laughed. "The power in this family flows from the loins of women, pater," she spat with some vehemence, "and the right to wield it may only be retained at their sufferance."_

_"You can do nothing to me, and you know—"_

_Severus opened the door and was watching wide-eyed as his father began to turn a curious shade of purple._

_"Rotten. You are rotten in your core, just as was my own useless man—choke on yourself," Granny Jasper said, turning to Trillare. "I don't know what_ your _excuse is, girl, but if you cannot protect your own children, stop having them."_

_His mother said nothing._

_"Son," the old witch said, turning to glare at Severus' father, "I want you to understand that I will always love you, but I can no longer trust you to handle our family's affairs_. Purgare!"

Purge? _Severus thought, feeling concerned and then fascinated as a stream of darkly colored smoke issued from his father's mouth while that man struggled ludicrously to grasp the wisps_.

_Granny Jasper waited until the magic had been completely drawn by her wand, and then placed that instrument in her mouth, inhaled sharply, and took into herself every last trail of vapor. And then her eyes fell on her grandson._

_"Boy! It's not polite to linger at doors. Get yourself off to bed!"_

_Severus ran to his room and threw himself under the covers. He waited, frightened, sad, and bewildered, for his grandmother to come kiss him goodnight._

It had been dawn when he realized that it was _his_ fault that Granny Jasper had left without saying goodbye. _She hates rudeness. I shouldn't have eavesdropped. Maybe if I had written her a letter of apology, she would have come back_ , the Potions master thought, ignoring the tears that stung his eyes.

"Cauldron fumes," he whispered hoarsely, feeling lost.

Granny Jasper never told anyone where she was going. She just went away.

_She's always gone when I need her_.

~*~

At that moment, not everyone was wishing to see absent family.

_I don't care who she is, I will not allow her to breeze in whenever she wishes it. Protocol ought to count for_ something _at the Ministry_.

"Mrs. Zabini was most firm in her desire to speak with you, today, Shacklebolt. And I cannot imagine why you would be so rude as to make a lady wait."

"Secretary Croakes, I hardly see why I should interrupt my schedule for—"

"Evidence concerning the Lucius Malfoy affair?" asked a hard, cultured voice from the doorway.

_I hate you. I truly despise you_. Gods, _you look well_.

"Madam, please—" began Croakes.

"Good afternoon, Mrs. Zabini. What evidence?"

The lady handed the Auror an envelope, but he did not take it.

_Insulting as ever, I see_.

"Come now, Shacklebolt. There is no reason to be rude."

"Thank you for dropping by, _sir_ ," the wizard said with a pointed look at his colleague.

When the irritated, rabbity gentleman had left, Shacklebolt indicated the envelope in Mrs. Zabini's hand, and then the desk, with his eyes. She smiled generously, and slid several flat sheets of parchment from the sheath. 

"Kingsley, you always were over-cautious."

_An attribute that being married to you helped me to develop rather quickly_ , he thought, pointing his wand at the documents and murmuring a quick incantation before replying, "I note that you've retained the envelope, Zoroastrid."

"One never knows when one might need such a thing, does one?"

"And you assure me that it's perfectly harmless."

"Do read those at your leisure. I'm certain they'll be of interest to you," the lady replied as she was leaving.

_If only she didn't own the building_ , Shacklebolt thought grimly, annoyed with himself for how much pleasure he took in watching the sway of his ex-wife's body as she waltzed easily away from him.

Their marriage had only lasted the six months following their Hogwarts' graduation, but Kingsley knew he would never get over Zoroastrid. He was, however, pragmatic enough to realize that the consistent application of booze and business were invaluable aids in getting on with things.

He spat a good sixth of his bottle across his desk as the words on the parchment formed meaning for him.

_Harry Potter is_ innocent.

_Of course she is_ , Albus thought before shifting his perspective.

~*~

Harry Potter needed help, she did. That Dobby knew to a certainty. She was moping all the time. She did not eat. She hid in her room. He did not like it. It would not do.

"Good morning, Harry Potter," the house elf said with loud cheer. "It is breakfast time, and you will eat what Dobby has brought you, yes?"

The girl sat on her bed, hugging her knees to her chest. Dobby had noticed that she tried to hide it, but he could not think why. As witches' chests went, Harry Potter's was quite normal. He did not think she should hide it. Of course, that was none of his business. 

_Oh, but Dobby is about to interfere, and perhaps Dobby should—no! Dobby must_ , he thought, angry with himself for almost weakening. Harry Potter needed his help, and Dobby was going to give it to her.

"Try a little cake, Harry Potter? Please? Winky made it special for Harry Potter, and Dobby has brought it to you."

This wasn't a lie. Winky had seemed keen to help Harry Potter, and had been pleased when Dobby had suggested it. _"Now you is being a proper house elf, is Dobby,"_ she had said.

Dobby hoped Winky would not take to her bottle again when she realized the truth.

Harry smiled weakly and took a piece of cake. 

"I'll just have a few bites," she said.

"One is all you need."

"What?" Harry asked suspiciously, her mouth already full.

Repressing an urge to throw himself into the fire, Dobby smiled.

As the witch swallowed the bit of cake, the larger piece in her hands transformed into her broom. She stared at it in confusion.

"Oh, Harry Potter!" exclaimed Dobby. "Yes, yes! You should ride your broom!" 

Harry tried to drop the Firebolt, but it would not fall. "What did you _do_ , Dobby?"

"Dobby thinks the icing may be sticking. But you is a good rider, Harry Potter," and with that, the house elf popped out of the room. 

His going was followed by the simultaneous opening of every door in Severus' suite and the rising of the broom. Harry had to climb onto it quickly when she realized it was either do that or be dragged, and soon she found herself flying through Hogwarts at top speed.

"I say!" called Sir Nicholas. "It's good to see you about, Potter!" he said when she flew through him.

Harry could not respond. It was enough just to clutch her broomstick and pray she did not lose Gryffindor every house point it had so recently earned in the new term. And then she found herself in the Great Hall.

_Just in time for lunch. In front of everybody_.

_"Suspendo!"_ ordered Professor McGonagall after the girl had circled the room several times. "What is the meaning of this, Potter?"

As the broom came to an abrupt halt, and then slowly lowered her to the ground, the students in the hall burst into amazed applause.

Harry stood before the teacher's table feeling both exhilarated and sickened.

_That's_ it. _It's House Elf Pie tonight. . . . Unless I'm wrong and it's Curried Seeker_ , she thought as she felt Professor Snape's disapproval rolling in a dark wave in her direction.

_It's amazing to see how much his behavior toward her has changed_ , thought Albus, as he returned his full attention to Minerva.

~*~

She was awake again and complaining about the food.

"I don't see why we have to eat such spicy food, Albus. Wouldn't you prefer a lovely plate of simple mutton and potatoes?"

"My dear, I believe it will hurt the house elves' feelings if you don't at least try it."

"Well, I certainly wouldn't want to upset the ruddy house elves, now would I?"

"Merva, I believe you're feeling better!"

"Perhaps I am," she said, fondly patting the hand he had lain next to her.

The wizard was so happy at his lover's improvement that his thoughts were difficult to control. He fought with himself to remain in his true present, however, for he was beginning to realize that the world did not actually require his interference in order to continue to spin. 

_Evie won't know exactly what's happening to the girl, but she'll be better able than I would be at this moment in helping Harry to sort it out for herself. . . . It's not as though a scroll of instructions comes with the Gift_.

"Albus, are you listening to me?"

"Of course, Minerva."

"Well, it doesn't look like it."

"Yes, dear," he teased, purposefully looking as abstracted as possible.

"Infuriating man!" Minerva scolded, though her eyes crinkled merrily. "Pass the curry."

Albus did not mind that he was being humored, or even that Minerva was simply playing with her food, for taking meals with someone who cared about you was important. 

It held a kind of protective and bonding magic that nothing else could duplicate if consistently done over time. This was why the students ate with their houses at the same time each day, and the same house elves prepared food for particular groups of students. Albus liked to think of school policy on this matter as one of the more pleasant forms of magical inoculation.

_I just wish that there was something more I could do_.

~*~

While Dumbledore was trying to avoid Harry's memories, the chief haruspex of Hogsmeade was immersing herself in them. She focused herself on her task of mystical voyeurism, blocking out any knowledge of the world around her, until she was "in."

The sword glinted in the moonlight as Ree turned it this way and that. "It's amazingly well balanced, professor. And light enough that I think I might be able to make use of it!"

"I'm pleased you like it," Severus said.

The Potions master had not been certain that Harry would accept his gift, but it concerned him that she was leaving so ill-prepared. He knew the Wilds were not at all well governed, and vampires, no matter what they were contracted to do, were seldom trustworthy—unless one counted keeping the promise of a threat they had made. He did not wish for Harry to leave for her special training, but if she was determined to do it, then she would have all the protection he might bestow upon her.

"And the scabbard is gorgeous."

"I think you'll find that the intricacy of the metalwork serves more than aesthetics."

She winked at him. "Of course it does."

"Potter."

"Snape."

He tried to glare, but he knew he was being affectionately teased.

"It is enchanted."

"The scabbard or the sword?"

"Both, actually. The scabbard has the standard protective spells incorporated into it, in addition to . . . an offensive component."

"So, what you're telling me is that no one can touch the scabbard but me?"

"Indeed, no one _should_."

"And the sword itself?"

"Is invisible, once you know the activator."

"That should make fighting more interesting. . . . What do I have to do to learn the activator?"

Severus stepped a little further into the clearing in the trees behind the castle where he and Harry routinely practiced her blade work—something at which the young woman was not particularly proficient—and drew his own sword.

"Disarm me."

"Ah, so your plan is to kill me, rather than to allow me to go to the Old One?"

"Do you think so little of your abilities, Potter?"

"I'm ever the realist, professor."

"How unfortunate," he replied.

And then he rushed her.

Unnoticed by either sparring partner—or Evie, for such was impossible—Alastor Moody sucked grumpily on the mouth of his flask. The haruspex imagined him to be thinking something like, "Just give me a reason, Snape," as the man stooped in his hiding place within one of the larger trees.

From the ground, where she had just been knocked, Harry yelled, "Hey! No fair!"

"Constant vigilance, Potter. Isn't that what Moody is always saying?"

"Master Moody hasn't yet consented to teach me anything, sir," she responded, climbing to her feet.

"Who could blame him—why teach the irresponsible _or_ the stupid?"

"Professor Dumbledore approves of this, you know. It was his idea!" Harry yelled with a lunge at Severus.

She missed him, but when he laughed, the young witch pointed her sword-tip at the wizard and yelled, "Don't you laugh at me, damn you!"

The arc of green light shooting from her weapon surprised all three of them. Moody cast a displacement spell on Snape in barely enough time to move him out of harm's way, and the magic sank into a bank of moss, causing it to wither, blacken, and ignite.

_Oh, dear_ , Evie thought.

"No," Harry murmured.

"Yes, dear," Evie thought. "You did that. You must forgive yourself for it, you know."

"But I almost killed him," the witch said, accepting the haruspex's presence.

"True, but it was unintentional."

"That wouldn't have mattered if Severus had died."

"I know. But he didn't die, now did he?"

The younger witch made no reply.

Evie sighed and straightened up and Out to look at Hermione. 

"How long?"

"Four hours."

"Well, then. It's definitely time for tea."

"How is she?"

"Rather more interesting than I would have imagined a hero to be, you know. Oh, don't be offended, dear. It's just that one _does_ deal with heroes a great deal as a haruspex, and I don't always like the way they think. There is a lot of bluster and bloody single-mindedness in your average hero, you see. No, I have never found stubborn people attractive. Not as a rule. Well, there may have been exceptions—but then I _was_ younger, and it was university . . . ."

"Evie, did you ever study with a witch named Trelawney?" Hermione asked, summoning the tea things as they sat down on the young woman's front porch.

"Sybil? _Sybil_ Trelawney?"

"Yes."

"Oh my, well—one doesn't like to speak ill of the dead, dear."

"Of course not."

"But then, I had it from Sybil that 'leaving the earthly coil shall not be the end', so I suppose it won't count if I speak of our old school days, now will it?"

~*~

Rosmerta watched from her little place in the Edge and wondered if she was still capable of bringing someone out of it. The Edge—the Quiet, or whatever else one might call it—was a confusing place to someone who preferred staying in one location and on one plane.

"I quite agree," Poppy whispered. "I never could understand all this excitement over possibilities at the expense of the present."

"Well, what are you doing here, then?"

"That woman is an amateur, and haven't I looked after the girl perfectly well without any interference?"

"Toadhopple is very capable, thank you."

"Oh, yes—she's one of yours, isn't she?"

"Yes, she is."

"And quite good at her job, leaving to take a tea break!"

"What a splendid idea. . . . Perhaps you can tell me one of your wonderful stories, dear."

"Don't patronize me, you strumpet."

"I wouldn't dream of it, my doxie."

~*~

Slytherin watched the two women leave with a nostalgic gleam in his eye. He could not follow them, of course, which was an irritant. He had not been able to follow any of them since the old sign on the Four Broomsticks had come down. And he did not dare speak to them. Not that he felt he was weaker than they, of course, but because he was certain they wouldn't talk to him. 

Rejection was not something he had ever tolerated well.

"You aren't welcome here, old man," a voice interrupted his thoughts, and before he could respond, those blasted birds descended again to chase him out of the Quiet.

"Yar!" Neville called after the fleeing wizard. "Avast!"

_I should have paid you more attention when you were alive, brat_ , the ancient wizard thought as he passed over the Edge into a wall of his museum nest and slithered into a tight coil.

There was a lovely heater on the other side of the wall, and mice used this particular passage rather frequently.

_Of course, mice never do have much to say._


	10. Chapter Nine: Skirting the Edges

Harry was standing in a large clearing and looking up at the stars. Tall trees with trunks as big as small cottages surrounded the soft earth on which she stood. Birds did not sing. Insects did not chirp. Wind did not rustle the branches. The place had the feeling of old power, but also of abandonment. In the center of the circle, standing on a mossy stone, stood a woman. She was short, and so was her light brown curly hair. She was wearing a grass green dress patched with darker green and a worried expression.

"Oh, dear," she said, looking at Harry. "I say, would you mind helping me down, dear?"

"Not at all," the girl said, moving forward to offer her hand.

"That's so much better," the lady said brightly, favoring Harry with a smile. "Evie Toadhopple, Haruspex and Hypnagogic Technician, at your service."

They shook hands.

"Pleased to meet you. . . . So, what's happening to me, Mrs. Toadhopple?"

"Oh, _no_ dear. _Miss_ Toadhopple, I thank you. I've never held with that getting married nonsense, you know. There's simply no time—not when one has seven girls, five boys, eight fish, two cats who'll come when called, nine cats who come when it pleases them, one dog who doesn't go anywhere, three loving parents, and several recalcitrant houseplants—not if one wants to have a career! One barely has time for the occasional—well, you see what I mean—can you imagine what it would be like if I were to have _married_ the fellow partially responsible for it all? 

"Actually, it sounds more like _you're_ responsible for everything," Harry ventured.

"Well, Gordon _is_ a very good daddy, you know. He keeps the house and I look after the animals, and the children, well, they seem to raise themselves—I'm teasing, dear. Gordon and I both take care of the babes—well, they're not _all_ babes anymore, but you see what I'm saying, I hope?"

No, Harry did not, but she decided that silence was her best option.

"Now then, do you remember that we've been chatting?"

"Yes."

"Oh, good. You know, I've always found it a trifle difficult to guide someone through her thoughts when she didn't know I was there. And I wanted to see what you were seeing—and I wanted you to see _me_ , so here I am. And," she said, pulling a sword and scabbard out of the right-hand pocket of her dress, "I've brought you this."

Harry took the sword. 

"My graduation gift. How did you get it?"

"Oh, that's easily explained: I don't actually have it. I found it in your thoughts. It _seemed_ important, so I wanted to know if it _was_ important. That's why I brought it. Well, I thought it up and removed it from my pocket if you want to the specifics. What can you tell me about it?"

"It's spelled."

"Ah, yes—Hermione mentioned I should not touch it, particularly the scabbard, should I ever really find it—one assumes that, since it would most often be in the scabbard, that device was enchanted to protect the sword. Taken out of its scabbard, you'd be using it, and anyone who was on the business end—"

"Miss Toadhopple?"

"Oh, _no_ , dear—call me Evie."

"Evie, why do you think my sword is important?"

"It was hanging before an old door in one of your mental byways. I do hope you don't mind that I went wandering about, dear. You're full of the juiciest memories, you know. Some put me _quite_ in mind of my Tuesday "date" nights with Gordon, and I—oh, but you don't want to hear about that—it's just that you seem to have had some fascinating experiences, and I _did_ hope that they might shed light on how to . . . sort you out, to put it politely."

"Take me to the door."

And then they were at it.

"Oh, my. You're very good at this, aren't you? Well, that does make sense. You spent a lot of time suspended in this state, didn't you?"

The door was massive, about the height of three tall men, and as wide as six men lying end to end. Black iron bands reinforced its stain-darkened planks, and it was unguarded.

"Whatever it leads to must be most impressive," Evie allowed.

"My master would thank you, if it were possible."

"Oh! Were you apprenticed?"

"Yes. This door leads into the home of my first master."

"Shall we go in?"

"No."

"Oh," Evie said, looking disappointed for about half a second before continuing. "Why, that's fine. Secrets are healthy, I suppose. Now then, why was your sword hanging here in the first place, do you think?"

"Probably because Severus—Snape, Severus Snape—gave me this sword, and he didn't want me to be apprenticed to my first master."

_Secrets are_ revealing, _as well_ , Evie thought, noting that now that the young woman was more aware of herself, she did not want to reveal her level of familiarity with Hogwarts' Potions master. _Interesting_. Evie had not ever had time to pay attention to all of those rumors she heard in the Three Broomsticks about Snape and the Girl Who Lived, but it was nice to know that _one_ of them might have been true.

"So, to return our attention to your enchanted sword—what does it do that's enchanting?" Evie asked, clapping her hands together.

The lady was so excited that Harry could not refuse her. She placed the scabbard around her waist, drew her sword, whispered the necessary word, and then the hilt and blade disappeared.

"Magnificent! The element of surprise!"

"Yes," Harry said, drawing the tip of it across her palm.

"Oh! But why did you cut yourself?"

A thin line of blood outlined the tip of her sword, and Harry made as if to sheath it. But before pushing the blade into its scabbard, an eldritch flame moved over the metal from tip to hilt, and the red trail was burnt away.

"The professor never _did_ trust me to clean things properly."

"I wonder if I could persuade him to visit _my_ house? Gordon would be so grateful," she said, and then the memory shifted.

~*~

"Secretary Croakes" read the nameplate on the door into which Evie followed Ree, who no longer seemed to know she was present, and also Sirius Black, Remus Lupin, and Albus Dumbledore.

"So, you understand, do you, that this object is irreplaceable, young lady? the wizard who Evie knew had to be Croakes asked.

"Yes, Sir. I'll be careful not to lose it, of course."

"Well, well, of course you won't lose it. No one thinks you will, Miss Potter! Just remember that no one in my department can explain its use—therefore, it's very important—and we'll need any notes on it you might have time to make while you're . . . away."

Harry accepted the milky stone cylinder from Croakes with a nod. She could feel the power contained in the small object, and was fascinated by how the surface of the rod seemed to swirl without moving.

"Ree?" Remus prompted. "It's time to go."

Evie tried to follow the party, but found it difficult; a strange fog seemed to obscure what was happening.

When Ree looked up, she was the only one still sitting. _How did I just lose all that time_?

The next thing she knew, she was remembering hugs, kisses, and admonishments while riding in a carriage that smelled of stale straw and burnt bark. It was almost like stepping into one of those dreadful Regency romance novels that Parvati used to talk about in Divination all the time—except for the fact that the bark Harry could smell was burnt by medi-wizards to apply to suppurating wounds. She wondered if the person who was hurt and infected and oozing had made it to his or her destination alive, and shuddered a bit as the sick smell of rotting flesh insinuated itself into the air.

_I should stop kicking up the straw._

The cylinder was still in her hand, but now it contained whorls of black smoke. Harry laid it down on the seat next to herself and leaned out the window. Two thestrals pulled the conveyance, but there was no coachman. So far, it was just like approaching Hogwarts, except for the disturbing smells and the fact that she was not traveling on a road. She was being pulled in the air over a churning river that cut through the sandy valley beneath her like a wound. Soot from fires dotting either side of the water rose toward the sky like smudges on canvas, and the scene below seemed terribly ill-defined.

"It isn't fixed."

"Ow!" Ree exclaimed, hitting her head on the casing of the window as she straightened to pull herself back into the carriage.

A sturdy looking older lady with black hair and eyes was sitting across from her; she was holding a stone object much like the one Harry had brought with her.

"I apologize for startling you, dear. My name is Vedette."

"I'm called Ree."

The lady smiled at her. "Do you have a surname, dear?"

"Potter, Ma'am. . . . Do you?"

"Yes."

"Oh," said Harry, feeling a bit disconcerted when the lady did not offer hers.

"I don't use mine, you see."

"Oh? May I ask why not?" _You probably_ shouldn't _have asked that, you idiot_.

But it was difficult to make casual conversation with someone who has just _appeared_.

Inexplicable, Vedette told her, "Marry someone worthwhile, dear, someone with whom you'll be proud to share a name."

"Oh! Oh, I'm sorry." 

"What on earth for?"

"Well, for whatever he did that made you not want to share his name, I suppose."

The witch laughed, and said, "Yes, indeed, thank you. Shall we talk of slightly less confusing things?"

_Have we been having a conversation_? Harry wondered, absentmindedly rubbing her stone.

"Is this your first time in the Wilds?"

"Yes. You know, I'm not certain how I even got here. And would you mind telling me why there appears to be an army beneath us?"

"Look down again."

Harry did. The river still flowed roughly and whitely across the land, but the desert was now a green vale, and there was no sign of fire.

"It's not fixed, as I said. Unless you keep your key, your experience here will be far more discombobulating than it has to be."

"My key? This?"

"Yes, the stone contains the slip of time you're meant to follow. Keep it with you, dear, or you'll end up fifty years past your own funeral when you get home—or fifty years early for your birth."

Harry glanced at Vedette's key, which held green vapor. 

"You and I appear to be headed to different locations."

"Yes, we are. Mind you don't wander Master Tancredo's castle alone at night. Take a servant with you everywhere."

"Oh, you've been to the master's home?"

"His _home_ you call it? Dear, you do know that you're going to a fortified castle, don't you? A fortified castle currently under _siege_?"

"No. I didn't. I know that the master is a vampire, that he can help—"

"Now, now—don't go giving away any secrets, young lady. That won't do. Not in the Wilds—not anywhere."

"Yes, Ma'am."

"What a remarkably well-behaved girl you are. Your mother must be very proud of you."

"Thank you, ma'am," the girl said.

And suddenly, she was somewhere else, watching herself—or being herself—she did not know.

~*~

Harry was nervous, but determined. Recent events had convinced her that she was no longer welcome in the Gryffindor dormitory, and she hoped that Professor Snape might allow her to return to the dungeons. _But Severus is probably so relieved that I'm gone that he'll only laugh at me when I ask_. She had gone to the Astronomy tower to attempt to compose a letter without distraction, but was surprised to hear, as she neared the tower, the sound of a sopranic rant.

"—and if you won't do your duty by your family, I will have nothing more to do with you! You wretched, hateful, ungrateful boy! I am ashamed to call myself your mother. Ashamed! I hate you, I hate you, I hate—"

"INCENDIO!" Snape howled, pointing his wand at the red envelope that was hovering near his head.

The letter burst into flame and its ashes dispersed in the chill breeze.

Harry was already turning around to flee down the steps when she felt the hand close around her neck. Mercifully, all it caught was a handful of invisibility cloak.

"Potter. Stop!"

Harry froze.

"You will never make a decent spy, Potter," the Potions master spat. "What is it that you think you are doing?"

"Trying to give you your privacy, _Sir_ ," she responded angrily, thinking, _Maybe I_ won't _ask_!

Balling the cloak up and placing it into one of the pockets of his robe, he demanded, "What business do you have up here at this time of night?"

"I might say dueling club business, Professor."

"Albus might find this business of our being . . . colleagues entertaining, but I do not. You will tell me the truth," he said, stepping as close to her as he could without touching her and glaring down at the top of her head.

Harry could feel the heat from his eyes and wondered if Snape knew any visual hexes. 

_No, death glares would get_ him _a detention_.

Inconveniently, this thought made her giggle.

"And just what, exactly, do you find so amusing?"

"Clearly, family isn't everything," she said, a mocking lilt gilding her voice.

It had the desired effect.

Furious once again, Snape threw her away from himself—but she had her cloak back—and she was invisible before he had brought up his wand.

"Potter! Do not _dare_ leave this tower."

Harry said nothing. She was too busy trying to breathe quietly.

"Potter, show yourself this instant!"

_Breathe in, breathe out. Breathe in, breathe out. Let the git scream and shout. Breathe in, breathe_ —

After a few abrupt turns around the tower, Snape stopped speaking and appeared to concentrate.

_Oh no_! Harry thought before trying not to think at all.

"Very good, Potter. You've been keeping up your Occlumency practice. We'll do this another way." With that, Snape turned and cast a locking charm on the door to the tower stairs, and then waved his arm in a graceful sweep of the area. " _Disconcelarus_!"

Harry did not know the spell, but she realized what it meant when the professor's eyes focused on her immediately and he stepped forward and seized her cloak again with a triumphant smirk.

"Did you ruin it?" she demanded, forgetting her fear.

"No. But you won't have it after the spell wears off in any case," Snape said, circling Harry before leaning down to hiss against her hair. "Tell me why I shouldn't defenestrate you for your insolence."

_Do anything you want to me. Just_ tell _me about it while you're doing it_ , Harry thought before she could stop herself. _Oh, gods! Moving back into the dungeons is a_ terrible _idea_.

"Potter, I'm waiting for your explanation," Snape whispered again, drawing out his syllables.

"Then stop breathing down my neck so I can _think_."

"Interesting. Have I at last managed to intimidate our noble heroine?"

"With respect, sir, you're an awful prat."

Snape snorted. 

"No, I am a _tremendous_ prat," he said, though he was not sure why he had.

His words startled them both into laughter, which stopped only when Harry reached out to Severus for support. When she began to pull her hand back, he caught it lightly and held her in place.

"Why are you here, Harry?"

"IcametoaskyouifIcouldcomeback."

"What?"

"I came to ask you if I could come back. I'm not—I'm not _welcome_ in the dormitory."

"No?"

"No. All right. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have asked," Harry said, pulling her hand away.

"No! No, I didn't mean that no as a negative. I meant it as an enquiry. What do you mean you're not welcome in the dormitory?"

"Do I have to tell you that?"

Severus considered her. "Of course not. But why do you want to move back into the dungeons? Surely you know that the Headmaster would secure you accommodations elsewhere."

Harry turned away from the professor and walked to the edge of the tower. 

"I don't want special treatment. I just want things to go back to the way they were before."

Severus followed her and stood next to her. He noticed that she was shivering.

_Damnation_ , he thought, removing her cloak from his robe and draping it over her shoulders before realizing how disturbing it would look. "That won't do."

"What won't do? My disembodied head?"

Severus snatched the cloak back without thinking about anything in particular—not memories of the library, not naked, uncloaked women, not improperly, though overly, clad students under his protection. 

"Take this," he ordered, ungraciously shoving his own robe into her hands.

He pretended not to notice when Harry took her cloak out of the pocket in his robe in which he had crammed it and tucked it into her clothing.

"Just getting comfortable," she said when she noted him not noticing.

"Hmph."

"And to think—Draco once accused my living with you of having improved my vocabulary."

Severus was taken aback by this revelation. 

"I did not realize that you were still in contact with Draco."

"I'm not . . . not really. . . . Are you?"

"Narcissa assures me that he is well—making top marks, playing well, dating lots . . . ."

"That's all right. I know."

_Zabini_ , Severus thought, cursing him for his lack of discretion. Of course, the boy was merely attempting to clear the field by speaking ill of Draco—however true what he said might be—though it had not done him much good. _Charlie Weasley seems to have stepped into the void Draco left quite nicely, hasn't he_? "You miss him," he stated, though he meant it as a question.

"I worry about Draco, professor. I'm not sure that's the same as missing him."

"Perhaps not," Severus responded, allowing his shoulders to sag a bit. 

His mother's words were still crashing about in his head, but they faded as Harry's thoughts grew unguarded.

_I wish he'd at least answer my letters_.

"You know that things will never be the way they were before, Harry. Don't you?"

But Harry did not want to talk about Draco anymore. She had enough of that sort of conversation while spending time with Blaise after curfew. Thanks to Charlie—and the fact that Charlie was rather far away—she found herself breaking curfew several times a week. 

Deliberately misunderstanding Snape, she asked, "You mean you've put fire flax in the cupboard again?"

"If you do not cease your inappropriate flippancy, I shall be forced to recommend that you _do_ see Tongish Oddfish for counseling. . . . Brat."

"You're right."

"Oh? You want to see Tongish Oddfish?"

"No. You are a tremendous prat."

"Potter," Severus said, making an effort to sound more professorial than sympathetic, "I am many things, and . . . most of them are worthy of your respect."

She turned and looked up at him, the regard plain in her expression, and said, "I agree."

_Oh_.

"Professor?"

_Yes_?

_That's not out loud, you know_.

"Potter . . . ."

"May I have my room back, Sir? I'll cook for us again."

"You think I miss your cooking, do you?"

Harry swept a slow gaze from his feet to his hair, and then looked pointedly again at his mid-section.

"I have not been hungry," he said, a defensive edge returning to his voice to mask his enjoyment of her frank ocular assessment of his body. He turned to look out over the grounds. When Harry did not respond, he asked, "Do you truly wish to leave the comfort of your tower for the . . . dungeons, Harry?"

"You know that I do," she responded, almost too softly to be heard. _Severus_.

Smoothing a wind-blown lock of hair back into place behind Harry's ear, the Potions master smiled in a way that he knew would provoke a pleasing reaction from the girl. 

_Colleagues or not,_ Miss _Potter, I'm going to have to insist that you address me appropriately at all times_. "Even in our quarters. Understood?"

"Understood. Thank you."

"For what?"

"Looking after me," she said.

After his mother's assessment of his myriad inadequacies, Harry's complete faith in him was gratifying—though it did tend to quell the warmer feelings he harbored for her and promote an irritating sensation in himself that he imagined might be guilt.

_I should be reading you a bedtime story, not thinking about taking you to bed_.

It was far too early to sleep, curfew or no, so Severus conjured some pillows and tried to remember an appropriate Wizarding fable with which Harry might be unfamiliar.


	11. Chapter Ten: Revelation and Remonstrance

Evie had left her charge in a state of remembrance and eased herself out of the girl's active awareness because she was finding it difficult to follow the girl around in her mind. She had the oddest sensation that the child was not actually in her mind, but knew that was not right.

_I simply need to rest_ , she thought. _And perhaps the confusion in her mind is a sign that Ree is not completely comfortable with my presence—any competent hypnagogue could tell you that_.

Heedless of Toadhopple's absence, Ree moved on.

She was at sixes and sevens about boys. Well, to be honest, about _one_ boy in particular. Before the Change, she had snogged Draco more times than she could remember, but she supposed those experiences did not count now that she was a girl. Justin Finch-Fletchley counted; she had made out with him a bit on last year's first Hogsmeade trip. That had been nice—until Justin had begun to paw her and Ron had appeared out of nowhere to pummel the boy. In fact, between Ron's constant surveillance and Blaise's rumors, any boy that she thought she _might_ want to kiss had to be pretty determined about wanting to snog her.

And, so far, no one's resolve had proved sufficient to overcome the continued harassment of her would-be chaperones—not for long, anyway.

Charlie had been owling her a lot, though. _He_ had kissed her goodnight after the Ministry's Christmas ball, and also several times over the course of the summer near the end of his visit to his family. They had been lovely kisses—open-mouthed—but never particularly intense. They were certainly _nothing_ like the kiss Blaise Zabini had given her after the first Quidditch practice of this year when she had forgotten that she was a girl again and gone into the boys' changing room.

It was as if his tongue had been somewhere else entirely.

_Perhaps I'll just take a moment to check on Chore_ , Evie thought, before deciding against it. She did not wish to betray a lack of trust in her daughter. _And that Weasley boy she's mooning around is too old for her_.

Besides, what harm could the child get up to in a joke shop?

Content with this thought, the haruspex decided to "peek" back in on Ree's mind. The girl seemed "present," and Evie could see her thoughts more clearly, though she did not make her presence known to the girl for fear of spooking her again.

_Who knew that went on in the Quidditch changing rooms_! the woman thought, somewhat taken aback, for Harry was thinking of a time when she had been about the same age as Terpsichore.

Since that first taste of him, Harry had sought any opportunity to investigate Blaise's mouth. She would have endeavored a more thorough exploration of that boy had he allowed it, but Blaise, like Draco, was a teasing prat. Where it seemed Charlie was being a gentleman, she knew that Blaise was playing with her.

_I hate him_! she thought, walking toward Hagrid's hut.

She wasn't going to talk to the half-giant about the boys she still wanted to kiss, especially not the one about whom she was most curious.

_Ron_.

_Oh, dear—a Weasley_! thought Evie in alarm. _It's all that red hair—it inflames the girls. And the freckles_ . . . .

Harry knew that Ron was Hermione's, but . . . .

_He keeps attacking any boy who looks at me_.

And the more Ron defended her honor, the more intriguing he became.

_Yes, indeed. Gordon was that brand of noble, as well. Devastating, devastating_ . . . .

In Divination, Parvati and Lavender said that men who fought for you were interested in more than your protection. Hermione had rolled her eyes about their comments when Harry had reported them. 

"Chivalry _isn't_ dead, you know. _Some_ men are gentlemen," her friend had told her, a slightly suspicious edge to her voice.

Yes. Some redheads _were_ very tall, very tall gentlemen who would not let other boys near you, very tall gentlemen who would not let other boys near you who constantly tried to be near you themselves.

_And he has the nicest mouth_.

_Perhaps Chore_ should _be sent to that cheese-making academy in Cheddar—mostly girls enrolled—and she shows no real signs of exercising her latent Sight_ , thought Evie, pulling a bit further away from her charge's memory as she became more involved in her own thoughts.

"Yer lookin' a mite bit confused there, Harry," Hagrid greeted her as she arrived at his hut.

_Maybe he just reminds me of Charlie. And maybe it's your own fault for letting Blaise anywhere near you_!

"Harry, yer lookin' a wee bit flushed, as well."

_But I miss Charlie—and Blaise uses his_ tongue.

"You'd better come in la—lass. I've got a nice pot of herbal tea brewing. It'll be just the thing to settle yeh."

_Brewing. Potions master. . . . I wonder how_ he _kisses_.

Evie smiled widely, thinking, _I_ knew _it_!

Hagrid had poured Harry a cup of tea and sat her down at the table in his home before the girl realized she was drinking.

"So?" he prompted, looking worriedly at her.

"Maybe it's three boys," she said when she broke her reverie.

_Tha's all right, then. She's just in love_. "Maybe so," he agreed, a big grin spreading across his face.

Harry hid her own in her mug. _Today couldn't possibly get any worse_ , she thought, resolving to talk to Ron that evening.

_I'm going to kiss him and get it out of my system, or punch him until he promises to leave me alone_!

The haruspex gently surfaced from Ree's mind and gazed fondly at the girl. 

"Violence never did further the course of love, sweeting," she said, pulling a knife from her robes and slicing her finger, for she had decided to check on her sixteen-year-old daughter, after all. 

The sudden flash of her youngest daughter whispering something in a tall boy's ear came to her, and she apparated to Weasley's Wizard Wheezes in lieu of healing herself. She made a disturbing entrance into the shop holding her blade before her, and startled George into taking three long steps away from her daughter.

"Theresa Terpsichore Toadhopple-Thompson, come here this instant!"

~*~

Shacklebolt had been perusing the letters from Zoroastrid all day, unaware that his activity had aroused someone's interest. Albus "watched" him from the side of Minerva's bed after "leaving" Harry.

The first letter was from Lucius Malfoy to his son, sent just after the younger Malfoy had transferred to Durmstrang.

> My Dear Draco,
> 
> I know that this letter finds you in health and happiness, as Igor has informed me that you have made an excellent impression on your school fellows. He further notes that your new friends have not prevented you from engaging in your studies and extra-curricular activities with vigor. I am delighted to hear of your accomplishments, my son, but I urge you not to over-extend yourself. You have responsibilities at home which may require your return here you when least you expect it.
> 
> It will please you to know that your mother has been amusing herself with your good friend Mr. Zabini's mother. Both ladies seem to be in excellent spirits, despite the conditions in which their husbands find themselves. Unfortunate, is it not, that such elevated moods rarely last long?
> 
> Of course, with your mother occupied, I have been at liberty to concentrate on affairs at the Ministry. That institution, as you well know, is due for a reorganization. The energies of many of us are bent toward correcting those issues of policy of which we take gravest note. The time is coming, my son, when change will be inevitable. It comforts me to know that, at that time, you will be by my side.
> 
> I am not alone in being impatient for that day. Until then, I remain,
> 
> Your devoted father

Shacklebolt considered the epistle. Malfoy had obviously been planning to deal with his wife's infidelity in a most unpleasant manner. The intimation that Draco might have been planning to be a Death Eater was not surprising; although, no one knew how he could have survived Potter's spell, as he now knew the wizard had done.

_Why would Zoroastrid want me to have this_? he mused, picking up the next letter.

> Darling,
> 
> You know that I will be unable to attend your Solstice party. Luci simply insists I remain at home for a family celebration. It's best to indulge his whims. Don't be cross.
> 
> Your own Cissa

The skin on Kingsley's neck prickled in the way it always did when he was about to discover something. Of Narcissa Malfoy's affair with his ex-wife, he had been well-aware for some time. He had never understood what her attraction was to that vapid creature, but Zor' had been entranced by the witch since she was fifteen.

The next letter was more telling.

> Narcissa, please, you can't do this to me. The boy is almost grown now. He'll graduate in seven months. You and I love each other in a way that cold bastard of a husband of yours would not understand. Don't make me wait any longer for you. Come to me. —Vincent

This startling message was followed by a more succinct one.

> I cannot bear it. I am coming for you. If you won't tell him, then I will. —V

Kingsley put down the parchment in his hand and rubbed his eyes. _No wonder she left my office so quickly_.

Zoroastrid had never shared well. It must have been awful for her to discover her lover's infidelity. 

_Good_.

He picked up the next message.

> Dear Greg,
> 
> Here are those documents you requested. I certainly agree that we need to attend to the Orkneys. Too much unauthorized magic, too many unsanctioned objects—I'm certain recruits might be found in that area.
> 
> Unfortunately, I will be unable to meet with you to discuss it until after the holidays. I have a personal matter to dispose of.
> 
> When you see me next, I will have good news concerning my status as a widower.
> 
> Self-defense, old boy. Self-defense. I am, as you have encouraged me to do, practicing that phrase.
> 
> Vin

A knock disturbed the Auror.

"Yes!" he barked.

"Hullo, there, Kingsley," Arthur Weasley greeted him affably. "Fancy lunch at the Gryphon's Foote?"

"I think you should see these, Minister Weasley."

"'Minister Weasley'? Why so formal today?"

Shacklebolt handed Arthur the letters. They finished reading them together after Arthur had caught himself up.

> G.,
> 
> V. is going to do something stupid. My son is home but feeling ill, and my husband won't understand. I don't feel safe. I need you with me. Come to me, now.
> 
> Your own,
> 
> N.

"I expect that Malfoy must have enchanted his wife to look like himself before the arrival of her ardent lovers. And that in Narcissa's form, "she" convinced Goyle to kill Crabbe so that it would look like self-defense."

_Yes, that is a reasonable thing to believe_ , thought Albus.

Arthur cleared his throat.

"I don't expect Mrs. Zabini would have cared to know that her lover was cheating on her with Goyle."

"I doubt she'd care. I know she doesn't—she brought me the letters. But I expect she _does_ have her reasons, one of which is a marriageable son. The Girl Who Lived would make an excellent daughter-in-law, wouldn't she?" the Auror said, pointedly.

"Well, I'd say that these letters go a long way toward proving Ree's innocence."

"I agree, Arthur, but without her testimony—and Gregory Goyle's testimony, the Wizangamot will not be satisfied."

"No one has seen Goyle in months."

"No one has seen _Potter_ in months."

"Yes, well, I expect it will be awhile before anyone will be able to talk to Ree, Kingsley; however, you'll want to get those documents to the court. They'll need to convene a board of inquiry into this matter. Narcissa Malfoy _can_ be easily called as a witness, as can Mrs. Zabini."

Kingsley shook his head. "I agree—except about the part where either lady can be easily called as a witness in any proceeding."

It had proved impossible, the Auror remembered, to secure either Narcissa or Draco Malfoy's testimony in the "murder" of Lucius the _first_ time. And as far as the second grisly event, no one had seen young Malfoy since his father's dismembered corpse had been discovered. 

_Perhaps_ , Shacklebolt thought, _now that I have documents that might damage the Widow Malfoy's reputation, she'll be more helpful in producing her son if he is alive_.

Of course, without the Dark Mark, or any evidence against the boy to support his connection with Lord Voldemort, the Auror knew he would have to free Malfoy after he answered questions. That galled him.

"They should have all died."

Arthur Weasley put a friendly hand on the other man's shoulder. "Malfoy's just a boy. Snape assures me that Lucius forced his son to take the Mark."

"You're a good man, Arthur. As far as I'm concerned, he's the enemy. My job is to . . . subdue the enemy."

As he returned to his office, his lunch quite forgotten, _Minister_ Weasley did not dwell on what he knew were his friend's thoughts about Severus Snape. He found conflicts of personality some of the most difficult issues with which to deal. Once again he found himself slightly in awe of how Albus Dumbledore had managed the Order. 

_All I ever wanted was to head my old department_ , he thought wistfully before clearing his mind to focus on the task at hand.

Albus empathized with Arthur, as he, too, moved on with his task.

~*~

Chrysopharus Cranaminimus Croakes was a peace-loving man who desired nothing more in the world than a nice rum pudding, a steaming cup of tea, and a fragrant bath of bubbles after a harrowing day of negotiating the precarious corridors of the Ministry of Magic's Department of Unexplained Objects. The D.U.O. worked closely with the Aurors, most of whom Chrysopharus found over-hasty and impolite, but with whom he had heretofore been able to work with some reasonable level of comfort. But that was before Kingsley Shacklebolt had been promoted to the head of the Department of Auror Activities, and what to call that man, well, Chrysopharus was too much of a gentleman to express it aloud.

"By Isarat, he really is an _Unmentionable_ , Dribbles," the man informed his rubber toad in a solemn and forlorn tone, invoking his family god to underscore the depth of his feelings. "He is causing trouble with this ridiculous parade of suspects in for questioning, and requisitioning that old Tool Chest for sport—it's unconscionable!"

A Tool Chest was something that the first few generations of Aurors had used to "work on" their suspects, and, although such procedures had long been banned, several of the people to whom Shacklebolt had been speaking were rumored to belong to families with extensive training in the use of such items—for the sake of tradition, and all that rot, you know. The Auror had written on his requisition form that he merely thought it would make his subjects "feel more at home" before he took the only complete Tool Chest out of storage to aid him in the Orkney enquiry, which seemed to be dragging on entirely too long.

_It's as if he seriously believes he'll find more supporters of Voldemort after what that evil wizard did. No one could possibly—oh! It's all so ridiculous!_

"Not as ridiculous as you would imagine," Albus murmured.

"I should have stopped him, I suppose. But he didn't seem like he would stop, you know—and what do I know about interrogation, anyway? It's just that I can't help feeling that more people will refuse to speak to the man if they're afraid. Do you think" he asked his toy, holding it up and blowing bubbles from its knobby head, "that he really just means to bully them? That he doesn't actually care what they have to say?"

It was irregular, most irregular. But that was the way of things when one didn't place very highly on one's N.E.W.T.S.

Chrysopharus sighed. _I should have studied, Dribbles. I really should have studied_.

Albus turned his attention elsewhere.

~*~

Harry was beginning to think Severus had been right about her training with a vampire as she stood in the massive courtyard in front of the largest doors she had ever seen. Walls enclosed the area before the castle's entrance, and a bewildering display of frantic activity was taking place. It was difficult to fix on any one thing people were doing—cleaning weapons, cooking, tending to the screaming wounded, unloading supplies—but the young witch tried to observe everything.

It was part of being on her guard.

Of course, she did not remember disembarking the carriage, so perhaps it was already too late for caution.

"No. It is not."

Harry turned to her left, and met the eyes of the speaker with the firm, low voice, who was gazing at her dispassionately.

"Would you be the master?"

"Of?"

"Pardon me?"

"Would I be the master of what? Specifics are—"

"Lord and master of these walls, I bear a petitioner," called a frightened looking man from a carriage that had just entered the outer gates. He threw open his door and fell to the ground, pulling the bloodied form of a very young looking man with him. "My brother, Great One, my brother has been wounded!"

The master walked toward the man. 

"And do you come with an appropriate petition?"

There was nothing in the vampire's manner to suggest that he was aware the situation was dire, but Harry saw that he paid careful attention to the begging man as he ripped his brother's bloody shirt from that man's broken form. There were carvings on his chest. The vampire waved a hand, and servants appeared to take the wounded person away. The brother hastily returned to his carriage.

And then the Old One was back at her side, and they were standing in a quiet enclosed garden.

In response to Harry's obvious confusion, he said, "You will become used to this thread of time soon enough, and then your moments will pass much as they always have."

Remembering the etiquette Severus had insisted she learn, Harry replied, "Thank you for the lesson."

"I am Tancredo, one of many stewards of the borders of the Wilds, and your master for the duration of your time with me. You will not make free with my name when you leave this place, nor attempt to return here."

"Yes, Master Tancredo."

"Have you questions?"

"Many."

"You may ask one at this time."

"What was—"

_Oh, dear_ , thought Albus.

His arm moved faster than Harry could see it, but she knew it _had_ moved, as it was what must have struck her, sending her flying across the garden and into the stone of a damp wall.

"You must learn the appropriate forms, my apprentice."

Shaken, Harry slowly stood. 

"Thank you for the lesson, master, and thank you for allowing me to ask one question."

Tancredo nodded slightly to indicate she was free to enquire of him.

"What was carved into that man's chest?"

"A petition. The wounds are runic offerings made as a request for my assistance. They allow me to feed from the injured party as payment for his healing."

_That's disgusting! That man was almost dead!_

"In the old days, I, or one like me, would have licked the subject clean to indicate acceptance of the petition. Traditions are difficult to change. I prefer to take nourishment from freshly pumped arterial blood, so I have given up _certain_ aspects of the Rite of Request and Acceptance. As to his being near death, you are correct."

Harry was curious, but forbore from speaking.

"You may ask me your questions."

"Thank you, Master. How will you heal him if he's almost dead?"

"He has been taken to a part of the keep in which time runs more slowly. This will permit him to heal. Unfortunately, when the petitioner returns to his own time, all that he knows will have changed."

"Gods—will that happen to _me_?" Harry asked before she could stop herself.

"Godrixibus knew how to phrase his request for your training properly. Your time here shall be considerably longer than that which will pass while you are gone. You will be home two months hence by the reckoning of your own people, but your experience shall be of several months.

"But if you _know_ that you could heal this man and return him to his family, why don't you do it?" Harry asked, assuming that Godrixibus was the intermediary whom Professor Dumbledore had engaged to arrange her training.

Albus sighed as he read the girl's thoughts. He wished he had not had to keep so much from Harry.

"I am constrained by the request. Outsiders respect tradition. Further, I do not wish my home to become a hospital for anyone who stumbles upon the truth of this place. Requests must be specific and respectfully made, or they will not be honored."

"That's horrible!"

"Ask any inhabitant of the Wilds, and you would receive the same answer. This is our home, and we would not have it overrun, particularly as that is a constant threat from other quarters, as you have observed. . . . Now, show me your skills."

Thirteen hours later, Harry unsheathed her sword and raised it above her body, having failed in her efforts to successfully wield the smaller blades her master had provided her. "Fidelis," she said clearly—because she had immediately had it demonstrated to her that there would be no secrets in this place—and the blade disappeared.

"If you practice with your sheath in spine position and wear your hair as you do normally, you will be able to surreptitiously remove it by pretending to stretch above and behind your head."

"Thank you for the idea, Master Tancredo."

"Physical prowess, even with weapons, will not avail you much success against Lord Voldemort."

"No, I expect not. But I like my sword. It extends my reach."

"Put it away. Your reach is not at issue."

"As you wish, Master."

"If that were true, you would be taller, stronger, and a man—an _ugly_ man."

"I don't understand."

_Neither did Severus, which is why I could not send him to Tancredo_ , Albus thought, remembering how much of his promise the boy had wasted over the years. _If only he had trusted me. If only he had been patient_.

But Severus had sought another master before Albus could make proper use of him. Tired from his efforts, the man left his "watch"; he knew what happened next.

"I know," Tancredo told Harry.

It was odd, Harry thought, that her master was so unnoticeable. He appeared to be a very young, rather plain, quite unthreatening man.

"We wouldn't last particularly long in a world of humans if we couldn't lose ourselves among you."

"I expect not," Harry replied, quite used to others reading her thoughts, and resolving to be more careful.

"The elders of my kind prefer to remain unremarkable and unremarked upon. Self-preservation and subterfuge are greatly enhanced by anonymity. Unfortunate for you then, that although you are not a great beauty, you are well-known, not an Animagus, inadequate at transfiguration, and possessed only of an enchanted sword and an invisibility cloak—an article of clothing that does nothing to mask your breathing or hide your steps. . . . You would not survive a direct assault on a more educated wizard."

"Even though I may be more naturally powerful?" Harry asked, irritated by her master's dismissal.

Tancredo laughed at that, a laughter so subtle that she felt it in her bones before feeling it as a cacophonous wind against her face.

"Oh, Godrixibus did not tell me that you were funny," her master laughed. "'More naturally powerful'—do you really believe such a condition will make a difference for you?

_Well, it has before, Harry thought_ , pointing her wand at one of the odd statues that decorated the garden, and casting, " _Vivus_!"

The statue crouched and prepared to spring in Harry's direction with a chalky growl.

In a language unknown to the girl, Master Tancredo cast a spell that caused the statue to replicate itself. Soon, there were about a dozen unrecognizable stone creatures menacing Harry.

"Master?"

"Yes, my apprentice?"

"Is the lesson that I cannot predict what my opponent will do?"

"No. The lesson is to teach you that you do not know what is _possible_. Lack of preparation kills more warriors and wizards than does anything else, save perhaps the arrogance inherent in a trusting nature," the vampire said, seemingly to someone standing behind Harry.

But the witch did not turn. The statue animals tightened their perimeter, and Harry drew her sword. Now, holding both sword and wand, she brought quickly to mind every destructive spell that Fred and George Weasley had ever taught her.

_Good ol' Fred'n'George_ , she thought as she remembered nine of the twins' favorite pranking curses.

"Should you survive this lesson, dinner will be served in your room in two hours. This will be followed by a discussion of your course of training."

"Thank you, Master."

~*~

Her thoughts shifted, and suddenly Harry found herself looking at a tall boy with long dark hair. He was holding a mask up which partially obscured his features, and standing in what looked like a cramped workshop.

She heard a door open, but found she could not focus on the scene; it was as if she were standing in someone else's memory. The young man hastily placed the mask over his features as another robed and hooded figure, also masked, came into view. 

_Death Eaters_!

"Your friend speaks highly of you," said the newcomer.

"Thank you," responded the young man.

"To know your worth myself, I would have you assist me in teaching an object lesson."

"How may I be of service to you?"

"Our world is deteriorating, though there are those who deny it."

"Agreed."

"And I would have them feel the cost of their ignorance that they might prove more amenable to instituting those necessary changes we mutually desire. Tell me, are you familiar with the class of potions known as Deterioratus Memoria?"

"Deteriorating Memory potions—yes! I can brew all six of them, though some take longer than others to prepare."

"Of course you can, but that is not why I have brought you here."

"I do not understand."

"No, I see that you do not, but that matters little if I have your obedience."

The other man said nothing. Harry could feel the nervousness rolling off him in waves.

"Only those with truth in their blood and magic in their veins can save our world from the cancer that is eating away at its heart. You understand _that_ , or you would not be here. Extending our reach, our influence, with those who make the decisions governing our people, is critical if we are to save ourselves."

"How would you have me assist you in such a task?"

"The complacency of certain Ministry officials would best be cured if they could be made to _feel_ what their inactivity and misguided policies have done to those they govern.

"You wish me to _poison_ people?" the younger man asked, his voice cutting into Harry's ears with a worried edge.

The other wizard laughed, and replied, "I wish you to turn a useless potion, indeed, a destructive potion, into a teaching tool, my friend. I trust you know that I would not abuse such a useful device. Imagine, won't you, how those imbeciles will be made to listen to reason when they experience their own magic draining out of themselves, just as has the strength of our world?" 

"Yes, but—"

"I know you, boy," the older wizard— _Lord Voldemort_! Harry realized—said sharply.

The young wizard grasped his head, crying out and half-stumbling as Voldemort slowly approached him, one measured step after another.

"I know your family."

The boy fell to his knees.

"I know your fears."

"Please, stop, I—"

"I know your desires."

Placing a hand over the young man's shoulder, the sorcerer drew him up as if pulling him by an invisible string. 

"I can offer you much in exchange for your loyalty. Submit to me, and I shall raise you above all others. Serve me, and I shall give you the power you seek. Join me, and you will be responsible for returning order to a world grown chaotic, cruel, and condemned. Though it will be hard, though it will be painful, though it will be demanding of you in ways you cannot now know, together, you and I and those who belong to us will make everything right again. . . . Do you wish to save your world? Are you wizard enough to save it?

"My lord, I will serve you," the boy choked out. "Ask me anything."

"You will work with another to turn the simplest draught of Deterioratus Memoria into a spell that will replicate its effects on the bodies of those who would oppose us. Let them feel the threat of wasting death so they understand what it is they have permitted our world to become."

"But you—we—will not kill anyone, will we?"

"Now, I ask you, what good would our lesson be if we allowed our students to die?"


	12. Chapter Eleven: States of Development

After interrupting Terpsichore and George, Evie had returned to gauge her patient's progress. She was pleased; young Miss Potter's thoughts were becoming more easily traversed. She was able to peek a bit behind the girl's mental construction of her master's door before leaving the girl to seek out her apprentice. _Vampires and fighting! Amazing, that's what I call it. And to think, Albus never said a word!_ Hermione was having difficulty accepting her limitations, but that was to be expected. _One doesn't like being on the other side of_ any _door, after all_.

The younger witch was pacing the room, and was not breathing in the "I-will-be-calm, I-will-be-calm" manner to which Evie had grown accustomed.

"Is there a problem, dear?"

"I was surprised to find you gone. I couldn't find you."

"We must have missed each other—I had a family situation—I apologize. But what is wrong?"

"I can't even meet her thoughts, Evie."

"It's not the easiest thing in the world to do, dear. And you may not have the knack."

"I'm sorry?"

"Surely you don't believe that, with enough study, _anything_ is possible, do you?"

"Of course I do!"

"You do? Well, that's simply balderdash, my dear. How can you believe that everything is possible?"

"Because it is, isn't it?"

"Dear, if everything were possible, it would follow, wouldn't it, that some things would have to be _im_ possible?"

Hermione looked positively devastated by this thought.

"Now, now—I think it would be best if you took yourself off, Hermione. You can try again, later."

The haruspices walked to the door, and then Evie put the kettle on. She suspected that Hermione was afraid that she would not be able to find her Ron beyond the Veil when _her_ time came. It made the woman feel sad.

"But I suppose it's for the best that she can't see inside of Ree's head. I don't suppose Albus would want what's going on in the Wilds to be common knowledge, would he?"

"No, I wouldn't," a quiet voice spoke from the doorway. 

Evie turned to greet her guest, but before she could say anything, the wizard acted.

" _Obliviate_!"

"Oh, Albus—I didn't hear you come in!"

"I apologize. May I see the patient?"

"Of course."

~*~

Albus was surprised to find that Ree had moved on further than he would have imagined. He had never seen the memory in which he found her, though Tancredo had sent word of what had passed. He watched, fascinated, as Ree threw open the doors to the Council Room.

"How in Merlin's name can you sanction such slaughter?" the girl yelled at Tancredo. "They were children! Women and children!"

Tancredo did not look up from the maps he and his ministers were studying on a long table set out before the high chair in which he usually sat, as he said, "They were ogres, Harry James. It is the business of this land and its stewards to kill ogres."

"There's no honor in the slaughter of innocents!"

Many of the ministers laughed at her comments, but were silenced by a sharp flick of Tancredo's eyes. 

"There is nothing noble about war, Harry James. Its driving force is always, at its core, a simple matter of 'us' versus 'them'. It is the most basic distinction one can make, though a most destructive principle. But without such a distinction, civilization could not be maintained."

"Why not?"

"Man is not generous by nature, Harry James. We seek out and protect our own."

"You're justifying murder by saying 'you can't save everyone'?"

"Indeed, I'm saying that one does not wish to save everyone, only those whom he feels are his, be those feelings of ownership valid, or not."

_I could_ never _feel like that_ , Albus heard the girl think, and remembered a time when he would have agreed with the sentiment.

"From the moment you arrived at your school, if what you have told me is true, everyone and everything in it was yours. You are a protector of what you know to belong to you—no matter your feelings about how some of your own go on. Is that not so?"

_Draco_.

"Among others," Tancredo said, easily picking up the girl's thought. "Guardians seek to protect what is theirs in order that their worlds remain intact. Pure selfishness—but the sheen lent them by their acts of heroism make their decisions more palatable for the people with whom they share themselves. 'Us' versus 'them', Harry James, that is why we fight."

"That's . . . that can't be . . . that can't be all there is to it, Master," Harry choked out, the memory of a wide-eyed, darkly furred ogre child rising in her mind.

"Infant," Tancredo said in his customary monotone. "Go to the window."

Harry did. The blurred ogric hordes surged far beneath the battlements of the castle. She shuddered. _There are so many of them_.

"Indeed. Yet you still fight them, do you not?"

"Yes," she replied heavily. "They would overrun and kill us if we didn't. They would breach the barrier of the Wilds and spill—"

"Into your world, take what you love, push you out of it—so it does not matter to you why they come to fight, only that they do, and that their advance must be halted."

After a brief hesitation, the girl said, "Yes, Master. Thank you for the lesson."

Tancredo smiled inwardly as his young heroine forgot to concern herself with the loss of inculpable mama ogres and their young. 

"Though it be hard at times, take comfort in the fact that you are serving the Greater Good by your actions here, Harry James, as you will no doubt do creditably when you leave this place."

"It's not a comfort, master. They were just bab—"

"Note well, won't you, that ogric children become adult ogres—a stage of development at which they are more difficult to kill."

"I can't help wishing that there was some other way, master. . . . I don't care for killing."

"That is an excellent trait in a heroine," Tancredo allowed, turning once again to his ministers.

Harry wasn't certain if her master's words were complimentary, or not. She thought not.

For his part, her master felt that his apprentice was now prepared to graduate from his instruction. It did not concern him that Harry James had not developed a taste for killing in her two years of service. That she had displayed her stomach for killing was all that mattered. _She's as finely tuned an instrument as you've ever played, Godrixibus_ , thought Tancredo. _And only Isarat knows how pleased I shall be to completely discharge my life-debt to you with the completion of the other matter._

Isarat. Faugh! thought, Albus, following the path of Ree's thoughts.

"Why did you allow him to refer to you as 'Harry James'?"

The young woman did not flinch to find the wizard standing next to her. "Master Tancredo does as he wishes. Besides, it _is_ my name, isn't it?"

"Is it?"

"And to have him acknowledge me at all is gratifying."

"'Is'?"

"Was," Ree corrected herself.

"Did you not have daily training?"

"Yes, but not always with my master, Albus."

"Ah . . . . Do you understand what's happening to you?"

"We're not actually in the Wilds?"

"No. We're walking through your memories."

The young woman laughed before replying, "That is the most direct thing you've ever said to me."

"Perhaps it is."

"Master Tancredo is rather literal, but, as pleasing him is no longer my main concern, 'Ree' will do." 

"I've looked into the matter, you know, Ree, and I have been unable to discover whence you came by that nickname."

In an excellent approximation of Blaise Zabini's low, smooth, mocking voice, she replied, "'Well, I expect Harriet is boring, and Harriandra is too dreadful to contemplate—but what about Harri _anna_ '?"

"Oh, dear."

"He made me so mad that I yelled at him to call me 'Harry! Harry, Harry, Har _ree_ '!"

"Ah. But if you still think of yourself as Harry, then why . . . ?"

Ree began walking through the psychically reconstructed corridors of Tancredo's castle, and Dumbledore kept pace with her.

"It's quite stupid, really. Blaise mentioned me in passing to Draco as 'Ree', and he forbade him to refer to me by the name."

"Thus compelling both of you to persist in the use of it."

"Exactly."

"That is understandable."

They approached a low door, which Ree opened to reveal a small stone garden. Moonlight shone down on them, bathing the rock walls with light that made the rough surface of their "room" gleam brightly.

"I know that Evie is helping me put my memories back in order, but not all of them belong to me, do they?"

"I suspect not," the wizard told her, sitting himself down on a bench. "Can you think of anything that you have seen that seems out of place, or that you know does not belong to you?"

"Yes. I saw Tom Riddle taking an apprentice," the witch said, turning a hard gaze on the wizard. "Why? Why did you allow it?"

_She saw that, did she_? Albus thought, taking a settling breath before explaining, "Because had Lord Voldemort recruited the individual he truly desired to assist him, more people than you can easily imagine would have died."

"You can't _possibly_ know that."

"Ree, soon you will understand _precisely_ how I can know it."

"I don't want to understand it. I just want it to stop!"

"I know, dear girl. I felt the same way, I'm sure. But some gifts you cannot return."

Unbidden, an image of a blood-stained girl rose in Harry's mind.

~*~

"I don't understand—why would he take Ron's body away, Hermione?" Sirius, now in human form, asked the witch.

Rather than answer him, she stared fixedly at the stained ground beneath her feet and muttered, "It's a secret."

A disembodied howl filtered through the trees, and Harry saw how Severus shivered. 

"I will not be much use here, now that the fighting is done. Perhaps I should attempt to find Harry."

Sirius didn't respond, occupied as he was with Hermione.

"Black?" Severus said, somewhat sharply. "I do not wish Harry to hear of Ron's death from a stranger."

"No, of course not," the other wizard replied.

"I'll go to the inn and have Rosmerta send help. . . . Will you be all right?"

A woman's voice startled Severus, who seemed, Harry thought, to be cursing himself for letting down his guard.

"I'll see to them until the Aurors come, young man," she told him, and then Harry had a flash of memory through a young Severus' eyes.

The lady was the Widow Blake, the lady Severus and his school fellows had harried many years ago. Harry could tell that the Potions master remembered her.

"Yes, thank you, Ma'am," he said awkwardly, and then he apparated away.

"You're welcome, dear," the Widow Blake replied to the ozone-laced air.

"Very good, Ree. You're beginning to direct it."

Standing in the memory, staring at the scene, Harry found that she had no response. _Did I imagine Neville_? she wondered.

Albus was surprised by this thought. _If you did not, then you are progressing more rapidly than I could possibly have imagined._

Harry did not hear the wizard. She was already casting about for another memory.

~*~

Sirius had not been the only person waiting for Aurors during the fighting in Hogsmeade. Voldemort had caused attacks to be carried out all over Britain, and one of these was an assault on the Ministry itself. These moments rose in Harry's mind until it seized on one particular scene, and she did not possess the skill to ignore it.

"Secretary Croakes, Secretary Croakes!" called voices from the smoke-filled doorway.

"We're in here—please, hurry!"

Arthur Weasley was laying on his back on top of a pile of bloody parchment, wounded somewhere in his stomach. The secretary was jamming memoranda and a jacket into what appeared to be the bloodiest place on Mr. Weasley's mid-section. Apparently, he knew no medical spells.

"Father, Father, please!" Percy Weasley cried, bursting into the room.

"Easy there, young man," Croakes cautioned. "I've been trying to keep him comfortable. Is it over?"

"Shacklebolt and the others have barricaded this wing of the building. We've been going room to room, but when I couldn't find father, I—"

A small explosion interrupted the boy. 

"Oh, dear. I don't think I killed him, Percy. But I did try."

"Who?"

"The Death Eater in the conference room. I locked him in and spelled out the air—I wanted to make him pass out, you know—or suffocate him properly—but perhaps I'm a bit rusty since the war. Watch your father," Croakes said, his hands visibly shaking, "and I'll go see what I can do."

"No, Secretary Croakes—please. Stay here and lock the door behind me. Don't let anyone in. Not even _me_ , understand?"

_What does he mean, "not even_ me"? Harry wondered.

"Nymphadora Tonks has a rare gift amongst wizards, Ree, but she is not alone in her ability," Albus told her, interrupted the young woman's vision of Percy Weasley resolutely leaving the room.

Shortly thereafter, Percy could be heard to say, "It's no use, Mr. Goyle. This place is crawling with Aurors—you'll never get out."

His declaration was followed by the sound of a wall falling in.

"Well, they're not here now, are they you filthy Muggle-lover?"

" _Stupefy_!" came the response.

"Here's a better idea," Goyle's harsh voice ground out on the other side of the door—" _Avada Kedavra_!"

Mr. Weasley stirred. "Per—Percy?" he called weakly. "Is that my boy?"

"Shh, man," Croakes urged him. " _Somnius_!"

Harry watched, helplessly, as the secretary dragged Ron's father—Percy's father—over to the far wall of the office and charmed himself and the other man so that they would fade into the background.

"If you can see these things, why don't you stop them?" she demanded.

"Because I cannot be everywhere at once, child. Only see," the wizard instructed, as the scene shifted again.

"You don't want to lose your heart to a witch, boy. . . . She'll baste it in your own juices and roast it until it's nice and crisp and black."

"Thanks for the advice, Mr. Coachman, but Trinny's a nice girl," Terrence Tellefor Toadhopple-Thompson responded to the old man above him.

The young man had been late to the Toll House, which was located on the Untaken Road a mile outside of Hogsmeade, but just in time to find John Coachman leading his carriage up to the gate. It was none of his business what was beyond the gate, of course, but Terrence still plied Mr. Coachman with liquor in hopes of learning something about that man's journeys. 

"Leave it be, lad. Leave a Squib some mystery about his life," was the only response the young man had ever received. Most of the time, the coachman was more interested in detailing his suspect myriad amorous encounters—which was ofttimes _almost_ enough to put Terrence off of sneaking around to Trintitia Tamantha Trilby's window for a "chat" before having to be home by dawn.

"I expect I'll wait another minute, but then I'd best be going. I've got passengers to bring back tonight."

"And you have one passenger to take forth," a stern wizard ordered, appearing suddenly next to the carriage.

Albus, Harry thought, realizing that she was no longer merely a watcher, but a participant in the moment.

When Harry/Terrence looked at the man, she/he could see that Professor Dumbledore was covered in blood, and holding the limp body of an injured man whose face was obscured by damp red hair.

"Gods, what's happened to him?"

"Never you mind, boy. Open the gate," Coachman ordered, swinging down off the box to assist the wizard with placing his charge in the carriage.

"Here is your direction," Dumbledore said, handing the coachman something Terrence could not see.

"Sir? Sir, is everything all right at home?"

Ignoring the boy, Albus raised his wand and whispered an incantation, and the gate opened.

The horses raised no dust as they galloped down the road, and the carriage intermixed with the scenery until it was no longer a distinct object.

"You're a Toadhopple-Thompson?"

The question helped Harry to regain a sense of remove from the scene, at least temporarily.

"Yes, Sir."

"There are Death Eaters in the village. Lock yourself in the toll booth and wait for John's return. Do not allow his passengers to apparate into the village until I send someone back to tell you it is safe."

"But what of my family? I should—"

"You should listen to me," the wizard said, his voice seeming to seep into the boy's frame.

The power emanating from the wizard drew Harry back, and she, as Terrence, found herself/himself following her/his bones before they could leave her/his skin.

"No!" the witch insisted, struggling to separate herself from the boy. 

She was not sure why, but yelling helped. She was free to watch the boy run to the Toll House and slam the door, and could hear him thinking, " _Gods, but I'm glad Mum home-schooled us_!" before his thoughts became a stream of worries about all of his family and friends.

"We'll talk more when you've returned to us properly," Albus said, leaving before Harry could demand answers of him.

_Oh, I_ hate _you_!

Her guilt at the thought turned her in an interesting mental direction. She was not certain if what she saw next was her memory, or her master's, or perhaps a mixture of both.

~*~

Harry had not intended to throw one of her fellow soldiers _into_ the line of ogres ahead of her battle group's position, but that is the way it happened. She had been frightened out of her wits as the creatures had surged, and had aimed her sword like a wand in their general direction, catching more than just the ogre on which she had nominally focused. Now, hours later, she found herself feeling more than guilt.

"Don't know as 'ow I like havin' to fight next to an Out-of-Boundser as can't tell her own mates from a monster," spat the squarish-shaped soldier with the two fake eyes—one glass, and one magical. "I ain't got the notion to start fightin' a battle on two fronts."

"Agreed," concurred another fighter, glaring over his shoulder at her.

She stood up and came toward the fire. 

"I'm sorry."

"Oh, you are? Well then, _that_ makes everything right and tight."

"Easy there, man. The scarred bint isn't worth it—just stay out of her way."

There was a low grumbling from a few of the men, but that comment settled them.

At first.

Losing control on later occasions, Harry did not actually harm anyone; she merely destroyed food or equipment. After each incident when the fighting was over and they had made camp for the day, the witch would creep off alone and practice using wandless magic in as focused a manner as she could manage until she began to gain confidence—which was why she, more than anyone, was the most surprised to see the head of the man taking point explode with those of two ogres nearest himself when in the thick of it some time later.

"Right! Enough!" she'd heard, after the blade emerged just under her arm and was pulled away. Mercifully, it had only caused a scraping wound.

But the next thrust of the weapon sliced into something rather more necessary.

Harry awoke to find Master Tancredo smiling slowly down at her. This was unpleasant because her master rarely smiled. His face was usually an almost immobile mask.

"Harry James?"

"Master?"

"Stop killing my men. They do not care for it."

A growl nearby her caused an echo of discontent to bounce heavily off of the stone walls of the damp, twilit room in which she found herself.

"Do not be concerned. He is chained," Tancredo reassured her in a bland tone.

Turning her head, Harry saw the soldier she had caused to explode not three beds down. 

"How?"

"'How' what, Harry James?"

"How can he be alive, Master? I killed him."

"I grow them on trees. They are a hardy breed."

Given her place as a watcher/sharer of the moment, Harry could tell that her master had been teasing her when he made that remark. At the time, she knew she had believed him. _Idiot_ , she thought, turning her attention back to the scene as it resumed in her mind.

"But—"

"But, Harry James? No, no 'but'. Either you do kill my men, or you do not kill my men—and I tell you now that you will not kill my men."

"How do I stop doing it?" she asked, feeling helpless.

"If you must employ magic here, you must focus your energies before casting. Feel the energy build in your finger, for example, and cast from that point. Your Albus Dumbledore will not appreciate it if I return you to him in a pouch."

When she was feeling up to it a few days later, Harry asked one of the white-robed ladies caring for her to bring her several empty cauldrons into one of the gardens that grew in the shadow of the tor that formed the peak of the fog-shrouded isle on which the old hospital was built. She was just beginning to be able to control the shrapnel produced upon the destruction of the vessels when someone came to bid her to return to battle.

Despite her new-found prowess, the young woman decided to exercise her increasing skill with her blades. In this way, her compatriots fell into charity with her and stopped trying to effect her murder.

_Magic_ , the young woman reflected, _is perhaps sometimes overrated_. "I'm probably the only person who feels that way," she said, again standing in the stone garden of her master's castle.

And then suddenly she found someone with whom she had more in common than she knew.

~*~

Ginny had decided not to argue with her mother about graduating anymore; she merely was not going to do it. True, Professor Dumbledore had decreed that the students who had lost significant class time due to the war would be able to make up their educational deficiencies in a special summer term, and this, Ginny had done. But she still felt as though leaving school with no clear plans for her future was unwise—that way led to what was tantamount to training in assassination, something in which the young witch was not interested. Ron and Harry, each with their first year of Auror studies under their belts, had both been pressing Ginny to consider that career option. 

But it did not appeal to her.

In fact, nothing appealed to her.

She had thought she might like to follow Hermione's example and train as a medi-witch, but that had been before seeing the devastation of St. Mungo's after the Death Eater attack on the building the previous year.

_Poor Neville. To have to see his parents in that state . . . horrible_ , the girl shuddered.

Harry felt her hands clench. She successfully pushed away the moment of the Longbottom's slaughter and focused on feeling what Ginny had felt just before her own graduation from Hogwarts.

Ron, Harry, Hermione, and Blaise had gone with Neville to see his parents as moral support near Christmastime, and Ginny had been along because they had been coming from a rather merry gathering at Grimmauld Place. The plan had been to wait for Neville, and then proceed to the Peppermint Patch for more age-appropriate holiday cheer.

No one had expected the shredding charms.

And now, faced with a graduation celebration only weeks away, Ginny decided she would just have to design an independent study in something, and try not think about the future for awhile.

But it was difficult not to think, really. She could not stop trying to figure out what she wanted. She knew that she was good at several things: she was an excellent chaser, and Ron's orgulous effusions on this score had almost proved to sicken her on the subject of Quidditch entirely; her potion-making was "very fine," according to Professor Snape's assessment of her final project; she had beaten Blaise Zabini at an impromptu alumni trivia gathering over the holidays, so she knew she'd learnt enough history from Professor Binns; and she could transfigure herself into an intimidating, large red and cream hawk, fly in that form, and hunt with accuracy.

But the youngest Weasley had no desire to play for the Chuddley Cannons. She did not wish to turn her potion-making toward a career in medi-witchery. Teaching did not appeal to her. And while it was satisfying to take the form of an avian predatrix in ways she did not dare contemplate too closely, particularly when she found fur under her fingernails, how could being a hawk-girl help her to develop a career?

_Maybe I should make like a Muggle tourist and knock around the isles for a year or two_.

Shortly after announcing her intention to do just that, Ginny received a letter from her brother Bill.

> Dear Gin,
> 
> Mum tells me the exciting news! I've always wanting to go into "bumming" myself, but my job takes up too much of my time. Speaking of which, I've spoken to Mr. Bonewhittler at the bank, and he thinks that we've room for another trainee in our program. Now, countermanding curses can be a demanding job. Fighting is sometimes mandatory, but our battles are usually with dead and unknown foes who've done a bloody good job securing a site for people long dead—well, when it isn't Mr. Cranston of Blenheim who thinks his neighbor's cache of magical weapons is really on _his_ side of the shared property line, but that is neither here nor there. The job takes a synthesis of many skills and a calm head in order to apply them if one is to do it well. I think that describes you, sis, and I'd like you to consider following your old brother into the profession.
> 
> It wouldn't do to go about sleeping in the mud and eating over fires for no reason, would it? Why camp when you can curse-break? The pay is good, the opportunity for travel is great, and there are plenty of likely looking lads just waiting to meet a pretty professional like yourself—which is why you'd be training with me, of course.
> 
> Just kidding!
> 
> With love,
> 
> Bill
> 
> P.S.
> 
> Actually, I'm not. Kidding about the lads, I mean. Or about the fact that I'll kill any of them who try to—perhaps I'm being premature. You haven't yet accepted any offer, and not everyone fancies a red-head.
> 
> Right. You're training with me. End of discussion.
> 
> B.

It seemed weird, given her circumstances, to feel better, to want to laugh. But knowing that Ginny had been worried about her future made it easier for Harry to contemplate her own.

_Sodding mess that it is_ , she told herself. _Where's a door when you need one_?

Almost at once, Professor Snape's office door appeared before her. She knocked without thinking about it at all.


	13. Chapter Twelve: Toward the Greater Good

Reliving the past made the present easier to bear. It was something in which Albus found himself indulging all too often of late.

"She's with him, now."

"Is she?"

"Yes."

"Then let them get on with it, man."

"Minerva, do you think that I've done the right thing?"

The witch pursed her lips in a considering way. 

"I think you've done what you thought was for the best, Albus, and that is all any of us can do. Now come back over here and lose properly," she said, gesturing at the chess board hovering over her legs and just in front of herself.

So as not to disturb her, Albus hovered over his lover's calves, adjusting his robes so that he would not disturb the pieces.

While they played and talked of lighter things, the wizard followed his thoughts where they would go. _Just because people come home doesn't mean that things get back to normal_.

~*~

He had not known the names of the beings who had fired Hogsmeade, but their faces were burnt into his brain. He had caught them on Untaken Road as they were fleeing before Rosantha, and by waylaying them to discover what had occurred in the town, he had allowed the witch to catch them up.

She moved faster than he could see and made no sound.

When they were dead, his lover flew at him, claws dripping and extended, enraged. 

"You let them in. You killed us. You knew. You knew they could get in and you didn't warn me!"

He had thought he might have to kill her.

What frightened him was how easily he had contemplated doing it.

But in the end, Ro had fallen exhausted and despairing to the muddy road.

She refused to allow him to speak as he carried her back to where their dwelling had been. The survivors were clustered about the smoldering ruins.

Albus could not even remember why he had been in the Wilds.

But Ro had been right. He had killed them.

It was centuries later before he had seen her again. By that time, she was Rowena Ravenclaw, and she took borders and apprentices. Helga Hufflepuff, who Godric, for so he was then known, remembered as Papavera of the Wilds, shared in the teaching of those who showed promise in the Olde Crafte. He could not remember why—something that always annoyed him—but it seemed slightly strange to find Helga working with Rowena. Hogsmeade had become a haven for Wizarding kind, and even Salthus, who had taken the name of Salazar Slytherin, had put aside old injuries to join the growing strength of the burg. The outside world—just as were the unknown Edges of it—was becoming increasingly dangerous. It had seemed prudent to combine resources.

"So it always is," Albus murmured.

"Ahem," Minerva sounded low in her throat. "Check."

"Oh, dear."

"Let's play again."

He let the moments come to him and focused on his pieces.

~*~

Rory Carmichael had been a junior Ministry official. He was well-connected, of an old family, and had married a Muggle. Four days after presenting his wife to society at a rather boring and pointless bureaucratic affair, he had been found in his office, the veriest husk of a man.

He had been the first victim, but not the last. And those who followed him to his gruesome fate were always found after the sign of death had appeared in the sky.

It was not long after this that Severus had come to Albus and made his confession, begging the older wizard to relieve him of his potions notes and his life.

And so the headmaster had, but not in the manner of the younger man's desiring.

"I want you to return, so that you might do some good."

"I do not deserve redemption."

"If in the course of your activities you should discover it, and find that it is not to your taste, ask me again to kill you. . . . Lemon sherbert?"

Albus had made his offer to Severus as a warning: one never takes candy from strangers. It had been his way of offering the other man a choice. Despite having no idea to what he was truly agreeing, the Potions master—for such he had become under Lord Voldemort's tutelage—had selected a dainty from the dish, and then gone to the infirmary to see Poppy. She was an expert on discerning magical coercion, after all, and no one entered the castle without falling under her care.

Poppy had been furious with Albus for months after examining "the poor boy," as she had referred to Severus. And as for the wizard in question—he had learned too late that his bargain wasn't much of one at all.

He had never taken another sweet from the headmaster again.

~*~

Young Harry, as was Severus, was wont to sneak out of a night. Neither of them slept well. Nor did it seem did young Draco Malfoy, whose eyes absorbed the movements of his enemy as if he fed off of them. At every turn the boy waited for Potter, but never found him alone until it was . . . appropriate that he should do so.

On the night in question, the Potions master had slept very soundly indeed, whilst Filch chased Peeves through the dungeons.

The smell of something spicy and reminiscent of cloves greeted Harry's nostrils as he entered the kitchen. It quite put his guilt about being out after curfew out of his mind.

"What smells so good?" he called before he saw the other boy.

"Coffee, Potter. Don't tell me that your Muggle relatives never exposed you to _coffee_."

" _Malfoy_ ," Harry said, as though the name were the worst of poisons. "Out alone? That's right brave of you."

The other boy put a quick hand down for his wand, suddenly nervous.

Harry snorted. 

"Don't worry. I won't hurt you."

"Not everyone's impressed by that Boy-Who-Lived shit, you know."

"Glad to hear it."

Recovering, Malfoy sat down and picked up his mug—the source of the delicious smell.

"I thought all good Gryffindor boys would be in bed by now."

Harry ignored the strange suggestiveness of the other boy's tone, and asked, "What is that you're drinking?"

"Would Sir like some?" squeaked a voice from his knees.

"What is it?" Harry asked the elf.

"Relax, Potter. It's cardamon coffee. Quite delicious, actually—but probably too sophisticated for your unrefined palate."

The house elf looked worriedly from one young man to the other.

"You don't know anything about my . . . palate."

"Bet you don't even know what a palate _is_ ," Malfoy mocked. "You probably wouldn't know what to do with a palate if it was . . . properly served to you."

Angrily, Harry stormed over to the table at which Malfoy was sitting. "May I have a cup of what the prat's drinking?"

"Sir will have to tell me where the prat is, first," the elf squeaked.

Draco laughed, and taunted, "Even the house elves have more refinement than you do. I'm not surprised."

"Him. He's the prat," Harry said, pointing at the other boy. "I'll have the same kind of coffee."

A pitcher and mug appeared to Harry's left as the elf popped relievedly out of sight.

"Alone at last," Draco drawled.

Refusing to be intimidated, Harry poured himself a mugful and toasted, "to Hogwarts."

The other boy stopped him by placing a palm over Harry's mug before he could drink, his thumb inadvertently moving over Potter's, which had curled around his cup. 

"It's customary to wait to drink until the other party has had occasion to tap one's glass. . . . To Hogwarts."

They clinked mugs and drank, never taking their eyes off of one another—Harry suddenly feeling hot, cold, excited, and angry all at once, and not quite knowing why, but traitorously thinking it would be nice to find out as he took his first sip. The velvety taste of coffee bean, chicory, cream, and cardamom made him gasp.

A slow smile spread over Malfoy's face, and he visibly relaxed as he asked, "That good is it?"

"Yeah. . . . I like it."

"Of course you do."

~*~

It was just as well that Severus had never known the origin of Ree's love of spiced coffee. But the night, or rather, the _morning_ , that the young woman moved back into the dungeons with the Potions master, there was a cabinet full of the makings for it.

Ree soon learned to only offer her roommate coffee in the mornings, as the man objected to anything heavily caffeinated after tea time, and to offer him that coffee unsweetened.

Albus knew, however, that for the entirety of the witch's stay in the Wilds, Severus had conjured up a cup of the sweetened, spiced, steaming brew and placed it next to Ree's chair by their fire.

~*~

"Ree, how very good to see you after so long an absence," Rosmerta said archly, looking up from her game of Wizard's chess. "Come in."

The publican controlled the black pieces. Severus moved the white ones. He stood as she entered. 

"Harry," he acknowledged, his face evincing no emotion.

"You weren't at home, so I thought—"

"That you needed to sample one of the back to school brews," Rosmerta interrupted. "I'll be but a moment."

"And how did you find your vampire?"

"You know that I'm not permitted to discuss 'my vampire', Professor Snape. You haven't been . . . preoccupied about that for the past two years, have you?" _That's what you have to say to me after all this time_? Harry wondered, forgetting, in her angry and disappointment, that for everyone else, she had only been away two months.

Unbidden, an image of Severus working feverishly over a cauldron, his hair hanging lankly in his eyes, raised itself in her mind. Without understanding why, she knew that what she was seeing was a moment yet to come.

"You look terrified sweating over that cauldron. What's wrong?"

"What are you talking about Potter?"

"What do you mean?" Harry asked, somewhat confused, but cursing herself. _Great, now I'm letting my imagination spill all over everyone else. I've got to be more careful_!

"What are you talking about, I 'look terrified'? Seeing you after an absence of two _months_ is not quite as disturbing as you might imagine."

Spending a large portion of her childhood locked in a closet, Harry had developed, so she thought, an elaborate fantasy life by creating scenes in her head and wondering about what they meant. Her story-making had kept her entertained in the Wilds, as well, when she had the strength to dream, but she had never told anyone about her . . . hobby, which just so happened to be number two on the "Why I'm a Freak List" that she had been keeping for some time.

Before Harry could respond to Snape, Rosmerta appeared in the doorway carrying a tray on which had been placed three tankards. 

"Here we are! I call it, 'Pining for Summer', and I'm certain that you'll enjoy it."

When each of them had some of the brew, Rosmerta toasted, "To getting back to normal."

"Here, here," Harry said tonelessly. "Because training to kill people _is_ business as usual for those of us recently graduated from Hogwarts, isn't it?"

The girl drained her mug and belched loudly.

"Oh, my. That good, is it?" the publican asked, looking thoroughly amused.

"Thank you, Madam Rosmerta," Harry said, somewhat more graciously. "I'm afraid I've forgotten my manners some in recent months."

"Not at all, dear. Did you come home through the Toll House?"

"Yes."

"Well, riding with John is enough to make anyone feel slightly out of sorts. Why don't you get yourself to the novitiate? Training starts tomorrow, you know."

"It does?" Harry said, astonished by how difficult she was finding the adjustment back to her own time? plane? circumstances? _Shit, Remus will kill me! I promised to come for dinner before beginning my training. But you promised that two years ago—no, it_ was _two months ago—still, perhaps he'll have forgotten? Not bloody likely_.

Severus, who had been watching Harry with concern, asserted himself. "Potter."

"Yes, Sir?"

"Master Moody has approved my syllabus for additional work in Potions for the trainees of your novitiate. You will find that document and your required texts on the desk in your cell at the house. Please acquaint yourself with these materials immediately."

"Of course," Harry said, turning to Rosmerta to thank her and then toward the door. _I'd be happy to, you slave-driver. Welcome home, Harry. I missed you, Harry. Sodding dictatorial unemotional git_!

"I'm certain I'll be seeing more of you, dear, now that you're one of mine—my neighbors," Rosmerta called.

Halfway through the tap, Harry heard Severus' voice waft through her mind. _"Welcome home, Harry. I missed you, Harry."_

The young woman spun around and found that the Potions master was leaning in a deceptively indolent manner against the frame of Rosmerta's door.

"Oi! Harry! When did you get back?" demanded Ron from behind her.

She checked herself, stilling the arm automatically reaching for her sword, and turned her head with appropriate speed to acknowledge Ron before turning back to Severus. 

But in that brief moment, he had gone.

"Don't mind him," Fred—or—George, she wasn't sure which, said.

Ron laughed. "Yeah, he's been hanging around here looking 'scowly' ever since school let out. I think he misses having students to torture over the summer."

_Idiot_ , Blaise Zabini, who had just walked into the pub, thought. "Ron's buying, I think."

"Mr. Zabini," Ron said formally.

"Mr. Weasley," the other young man acknowledged.

"What's with them," Harry asked George—or Fred—as they all found a table.

Blaise favored the witch with a very familiar look and kissed her cheek. "Ron and I are going to be training partners."

"What?" Harry demanded. "But Ron, we're always partners."

"Yeah, well, things change."

"Since when?"

"Since you decided to go play vampire mind tricks."

"Prat!" Harry yelled, making as though to get up.

A hand on her arm stopped her. "Come on, Harry. It's not as though I'm going to blow up cauldrons anymore."

"Hello, Neville! What?"

The young man deliberately placed a chair between Blaise and Harry and sat in it. "You're going to by my partner."

Something in his voice stopped Harry from protesting. Instead, she said, "I'd like that."

"All right, then. Let's get pissed!" Fred—or George—said, ignoring the strange moods that had settled over the others.

"Where's Hermione?"

"Medi-witch orientation," Blaise said, pointedly not looking at Ron.

"Yep—with _Viktor_ ," George—or Fred—said. "Seems like everyone's switching up, doesn't it, George?"

_Oh_. Bollocks, Harry thought. _No wonder Ron's being such an arse_. But it was a relief to finally be able to tell the twins apart. _War has a way of scrambling your brains. It's like I'm walking through the actors in a play, only I don't know my lines because I'm not really one of the troupe._

But after a brief step-away to the fire to contact Remus and arrange to see him and Sirius as soon as Master Moody would permit, Harry found herself too swept up by being with her friends again to feel confused by Severus or daydreaming or the world that lay beyond her own in the Wilds, and she allowed her memories of that place slide more firmly to the back of her mind with each successive butterbeer. 

_Alcohol is a welcome, though short-lived, panacea_ , Albus thought.

~*~

The Potions master had been dosing himself with Warders since Harry had fallen into the care of Evie Toadhopple. It was not that he did not trust the witch to take care of the young woman. It just so happened that he had finally exhausted his testing on the remains of various war victims, which he had begun almost immediately following Harry's lapse into a coma after attacking Voldemort. Watching over her had given him plenty of time with which to think, and being in the infirmary had afforded him the opportunities of both talking to Poppy and noting just how often Minerva visited the other witch. As Minerva's symptoms had grown worse, Severus had begun to suspect that he would find his own handiwork at the base of the potion he feared might be killing people. He was certain that he could isolate that potion from the tissues of those affected by it given sufficient time.

He had been correct.

The wasting magic that Voldemort and his Death Eaters had used in the war had at its foundation traces of his "object lesson" within it.

It was his fault that Minerva was dying.

"Why hasn't Albus killed me yet?"

It was in this mood that Harry found Severus after willing herself out of the quiet of her mind and off of Evie Toadhopple's couch to find herself at the Potion master's door.

Timing is an important principle in more things than comedy.

_If there was any other way_ , thought Albus sadly as he moved one of his bishops, _I'd spare them what is to come_.

But sometimes one was forced to bear a great deal in the collection of potion ingredients.

~*~

Poppy heard the sounds of the sobs coming from the student area of the Infirmary and rushed down the corridor until she saw the source of the despair.

"Oh, poor dear," she said, scooping the young woman up into a firm hug. "What's the matter? What's happened? Did that woman upset you?"

It took Harry a moment to realize that Madam Pomfrey meant Evie Toadhopple. "N—no. Miss Toadhopple was very kind to me, she—"

"Don't talk, dear. It's all right."

"No, no it isn't, M-Ma-Mad—" she attempted.

"That's all right," the older witch said, pulling out her wand and murmuring an incantation, "Call me Poppy."

"Poppy? Really?"

"Well, it's better than the alternative," she said, catching the phial that had floated toward her. "Drink this. That's my girl."

Harry felt more calm almost immediately, but rather too crushed to speak of what was troubling her. Instead, she asked, "What alternative?"

"My name—Papavera—it means "poppy," but it _is_ a mouthful."

"I think it's pretty."

"Thank you, dear. Now tell me what is troubling you, won't you?"

The young witch pulled herself up and scrubbed at her face with her eyes. Poppy summoned a handkerchief for her and waited for Harry to speak.

"I don't know where to go."

"What do you mean?"

"He hates me. And in my head, everything's confused. I don't actually teach here, so I can't take those rooms. I left Ron alone, and now he's, he's dead. How will I face Molly? And the moon is full, and Hermione will be asleep, and he hates me, so I have nowhere to go," Harry said, beginning to sob again.

"You're really waking up, now, I think. Oh, I'm so sorry, dear." Privately, Poppy was thinking that Toadhopple was an amateur and regretting ever allowing Ree to leave her care. But she knew it wasn't really true. What she did not know, however, was to whom the girl meant by "he," though she had a strong suspicion. "Have you been to see Severus?"

"Yes," Harry whispered. "He threw me out of the dungeons. He said, 'You have adequate accommodations elsewhere, and I am not disposed, at present, to offer you house room'."

The nurse stiffened. _The boy's been at the Scotch again_. "Did he say anything else?"

"Quite a bit, actually."

_He wounded you, and you came back to your hospital bed where you have always recovered. But I can't heal_ this _hurt, my sweeting_. "I'm so very sorry, my dear."

"I didn't know that I was such a burden."

_None of us ever do_. "You are certainly not _that_ , Ree."

When Harry woke up sometime later, she discovered Poppy sitting next to her bed.

"I didn't mean to fall asleep."

"You needed your rest. But I think that you would be far more comfortable if you went to your own quarters."

"No. No, I don't think that I could do that. I don't belong there."

"Stuff! This is your home, dear. There is nothing that any of us wouldn't do for our own hero."

"Please don't call me that. Neville, Ron—so many others—they're dead because I failed them."

"Tha's takin' a bit too much on yerself, inn't?" asked an unexpected voice.

"Hagrid," Harry said, rushing down the corridor and throwing herself in the half-giant's outstretched arms. "I thought you were in France!"

"And I thought you were in 'Amnesia Land', lass, but Filch owled to tell me you was runnin' through the halls o' _his_ castle again."

"Why would he do that?"

"Because I asked him to keep an eye on you, is why. I got here as soon as I could. Olympe and Fang send their love."

"Well, I expect the two of you have some catching up to do. I'll say goodnight. If you need me, Ree, don't hesitate to return, all right?"

"Thank you, Poppy."

"Good night, dears."

"By now, one of the house elves will have the hut in order for me I expect. Would you like to come down and have some tea an' biscuits? It won't take long to make them."

Harry could not think of anything she wanted more in that moment than one of Hagrid's teeth-breaking biscuits. 

Dawn rose and spread its light over the grounds of Hogwarts, illuminating the garden in which Hagrid and Harry sat, that young woman surreptitiously dunking biscuits into her tea. The sunlight did not penetrate the walls of the dungeons, in which Severus was waking up cold and stiff and alone in his parlor.

He had sent away the only person who would have thought to put a blanket over him as he slept.


	14. Chapter Thirteen: The Stories We Tell Ourselves

Hagrid told her that the young queen had been neglected and was sad, that the hero had saved the heroine and taken her away to "foreign parts" to live "happily ever after."

Harry dunked her rock-like biscuit into her tea and let her friend's roughened voice soothe her. She did not believe in fairy tales.

Hermione told the glorious tale of a handmaiden raised above all others, of a humbled queen living quietly but well, and of quiet love triumphing in the end. She left out no detail.

Sirius and Remus, the young woman was certain, were making up the elaborate battles that were favored parts of the cycle of stories about the Wizarding king and his friend and their loves. In fact, they intimated that the ladies should not have had such a _prominent_ role in the fable at all, as "nothing is known" of the time the heroes went forth into the Lands Beyond.

Professor McGonagall dismissed the entire story—in all its forms—as "rubbish."

But Professor Binns provided Harry with documentation.

"In my chambers, in the dark green desk in the far corner by the window—pardon the dust—you'll find some scrolls. Do be careful with them, Professor Potter. . . . How does this knowledge inform your curriculum, by the way?"

Not wanting to disturb the ghost's old rooms, Harry sent Dobby to retrieve the scrolls, and studied them avidly, poring over all the supplemental materials she could find in the general library and Restricted Section, as well.

Binn's scrolls were not the most exciting version of the tale she had heard, but they did seem the closest to real history.

> In the Very Oldest Days, long before we gathered openly, there lived those with the Crafte, and they were Reviled. In settlements all over the Isles, any found possessing an Evil propensity for Sight or Sign or Saving were put to the Tortures of Purification, as the Rites became known, and then Death befell the Unfortunates. Rarely, a wizard would be born unto to those whose Love for him was such that he would face Banishment, rather than Punishment and Death, at their Merciful Hands. Such a one was he who became known as Salthus, the Mighty King of the Lace Islands, now long Lost under a Near Ocean. It is said by the Foolish that the Great Lord Salthus himself caused the Ruination of his Home, the First Kingdom of Wizarding Folk, but those with Sense will not Credit such Slander.
> 
> Salthus, coming from Another Sea in a boat of stout black wood, chanced upon a fishing village oft beset by Disfigured Raiders. Landing upon the Shore, those Blessed Rocks of our First Home, now forever Sleeping under a near sea, the king called to the fishermen, who fled before him, "Why do you cower and flee? I am truly Great, though Just. I am not come the Destroyer of you or yours."
> 
> The lowly fisherfolk, our Wise Ancestors amongst them, came forth to view the Magnificence that was Salthus, the First-King, the Kind One, and were made less afraid by the calmness of his Countenance. They gave their tale of Woe to the Wise One, and he, Salthus, hearing of the Terrible Monsters that oft beset the kindly townsfolk, delivered himself of Counsel to the Affrighted. "That you and yours should live in Peace, I shall Slay the Plagued Creatures that oft beset you. When I have done this thing, you will Pay me by your Fealty, you and your children and your children's children shall do this thing, and I shall remain to Guide you." Our Noble Ancestors and their humble neighbors saw that Salthus was Steadfast and Strong, and they did Pledge to deliver their Undying Loyalty to the man that should Deliver them. 
> 
> The beasts came upon the village and the villagers and beset them. Salthus saw that they were Fierce, the Plagued Monsters. The monsters came, and the fisherfolk grew fearful. The monsters came, and Salthus slew them with Open Use of the Crafte. And the lowly fisherfolk, the unhappy, the unworthy, the Alarmed fisherfolk became a shrill voice of Fear: "A devil! A devil has come amongst us and Tricked us!" The Sage Seers and Scryers and Salvers did speak to their brethren, "The Man is Wise and will Protect us. Do not fear!" but those ill-starred folk of the Lace Islands heard our ancestors not and took up arms against Salthus.
> 
> And the Great One, the Kind One, the Kingly Salthus was saddened deeply by this action, this Ungrateful Rebellion: He slew those fit to fall beneath his feet and Wail without Pain and with Haste, Salthus the Merciful, Salthus the Great. And Peace and a Kingdom and a King came to the Noble Ancestors of you and of me as Salthus, Wizard King.
> 
> It came to pass, that while he dwelt and ruled our Worthy Mothers and our Worthy Fathers, that Salthus heard tell of a young man, a man of Beauty, a man of Courage, and a Man of Many Boasts, in short, King Salthus heard tell of a Hero. "And what, I ask, has this young, beautiful, brave boaster done to deserve the gift of the name _hero_? Bring him before me. I would judge his merit in my own way."
> 
> Godrixibus was brought before the Mighty One in fanfare befitting such a Paragon as he, and settled at the feet of the King. Salthus, in his Wisdom, saw that the young man was indeed Beautiful, with a Courageous Bearing, and a Boasting Tongue. "Tell me of your exploits, young wizard," the First King commanded. "You would hear a tale of Godrixibus?" asked the young man, who did seem almost too Merry before the Greatness of our king. "I shall speak to you of the black furred clawed beasts of my homeland, those same alarming creatures from which I saved my Thankless village."
> 
> And Godrixibus spoke for many long moments that did not displease the ear, and the king knew that he spoke the Truth, this youth with bright red hair, with a bright smile of teeth, with a bright countenance. Yes, Salthus the Wise was aware that the same creatures slain by Godrixibus were the creatures from whom he, the Greatest King of our Kind, had stopped from destroying our fishing hamlet. "We must go forth, we must discover the source of the Plague, we must Destroy the Evil Vermin. You and I, Godrixibus, Friend of the King, you and I must do this." The subjects of the Lace Island ing Salthus knew Gladness then, for they saw that their Beloved king had found a Worthy Compatriot.
> 
> Nothing, my children, is known of the Journey into the Wild Places beyond our Islands of Origin, the First Place in which Safely we Gathered, we Wizards, but it is known that Salthus and Godrixibus, Noble, True, Honest, Great, and Beautiful, did return from their voyage, and when they returned, having slaughtered the Beasts, they each bore with them a Woman.
> 
> For the king had taken a most Beauteous and Accomplished Bride, Rosantha of the fair hair, Rosantha of the fair skin, Rosantha of the fair figure, Rosantha of the fair fortune, for Fortune she had as our Fair Queen, Wife to Salthus, Rosantha the Queen of the Wizarding folk who did come to dwell on the Lace Islands, now forever lost under a Near Sea, then the most Beloved Haven of our First King and Kingdom. Rosantha the Fair had wed Salthus the Great, the Wise, and the Bountiful.
> 
> The Happy Burden of Godrixibus was a Lady of Nobility and Secrets, for unto us she came with but one name. Papavera was the name of this lady, and she was Kind. Papavera was the name of this lady, and she was Good. Papavera was the name of this Lady, and she was known to Queen Rosantha, though how we knew not. And Godixibus did her the Service of Bearing her by her Lady, Godrixibus did carry the Kind and Good Papavera of the Unknown Lands beyond our village next to her Lady and Queen, Rosantha the Fair. 
> 
> The Ladies Two were housed in Resplendence, Rosantha, Queen, going out to see her Subjects, and to Display her own Magics, for fair Rosantha was a Witch of Power, a witch of the Brewing kind. Rosantha, Fair Queen of the Lace Islands could brew life in tiny bottles, she could give love to the loveless, she brought children by the sip, and in so doing, the Beauteous and Noble Queen of the Wizarding Folk did ensnare the love of every Heart.
> 
> [Scroll lost.]
> 
> Her Goodly Maiden Papavera shared the Art of the Queen, yet not her Degree. A good Handmaiden, Papavera made Friends among the sick and Dawn found them Better, Healed, or Resting. And she did ply her Healing Art while the Queen did Bestow her Elaborate Favors on those whom could not find Solace from any other Source. These Wise Ladies did bring many Happinesses to the People of our Land, to the Visitors from the Near Seas, and to the King.
> 
> But it came to pass that Happiness was not the only Gift brought to the Wizarding Folk of the Lace Islands by the Queen, Rosantha the Fair, for she possessed a Sweet Tongue and could Sway the Lords of other Realms to put Down their Arms. Petitions were made for her, and Salthus the Wise, Trusting, and Besotted, did give his Lady Leave to Go Forth on a Errand of Peace. With the Fair Queen went Godrixibus, [translation lost].
> 
> Working hard at the Task set her by Great King Salthus, Papavera of the Unknown Lands became as a helpmeet to the King . . . [fire damage]. "But you spake of your love for me, and I would know how to return it Best to you, my [untranslatable]." And so it came to pass that Papavera Loved in Secret that Great King Salthus, Savior of the Lace Islands, Protector of our Noble Ancestors, yet the Lady Spake of it Not, such was also her devotion to her Friend, the Queen, the most [translation lost].
> 
> It was not a quarter season after the much heralded return of our Virtuous and Noble Queen Rosantha that Ugliness of Speech regarding that Mighty Lady and her Devoted Friend Godrixibus Poisoned our Ears. [Translation lost.] "Of this, I shall not speak again, of this, I will never speak. There is no dignity in such Speech." And the King, Noble, Just, and Betrayed, refused to see Reason, but soon [translation lost]. The Greatest and Mightiest, King Salthus did see how he was Wronged by his Friend [translation lost], and then he did call upon the Power he held Secret within him. And it was Terrible, and it was Just, and Rosantha, Mean of Spirit, Ignoble, Unworthy, Rosantha the Once-Queen was struck an Enchanted Blow from the Gleaming Wand of her King.
> 
> [Fire damage.] ". . . but you shall not find Blame at my Table, Godrixibus," called the Mightiest of All. [Translation lost.] Then did the Good Papavera see that she might Speak, yet she remained Silent. The Grief of her King she lessened by a Draught of Almost-Oblivion, a small amount of the Virtuous Potion was all that she did give her Beloved King. "And this is my Gift to you, oh Salthus, the Gift of a Subject."
> 
> And it came to pass that Godrixibus did Return most Rudely to the Table of his Friend, Lord, and King, carrying the Birth Water of the Once-Queen and the Brine of a Near Sea, the very sea from whence our Mighty King arrived to our Shores, the admixture of the waters to Fling at [fire damage].
> 
> [Scroll lost.] For such was the love of Papavera that she would not cause harm to befall any whom she had cared [translation lost]. But the Seers and the Scryers and the Salvers of our kind do say that such patterns, they come again, they come again and do Repeat and are oft-relived. The Unconsummated Marriage of Salthus, Wizarding King, and Papavera, Beloved Helpmeet, will not be remembered at their final Meeting. [Fire damaged scroll.]

Harry put down the last of the dusty translation scrolls and wondered what kind of fire had harmed them and the original parchment with which they had once been housed. Professor Binns had told her he had procured the documents from a Ministry auction as a boy, and that even then the shimmering essence of an ancient protection spell clung still to the aged scrolls that held the first telling of the tale.

"Eldritch fire wouldn't have caused the partial damage, you know, and I have never been able to think of any compounds that might have caused such incomplete destruction," Binns had explained. "And of course, nobody from the Ministry would discuss the matter with me, as I was only a boy being humored by his father. I've often wondered about it, though, indeed I've spent many sleepless nights troubling over it."

Harry tapped her quill against her mouth and ran a hand over the translation scroll. "I wonder if Sev—" she began, before rolling over on her back in her new bed and thinking, _No, best not to ask Professor Snape anything_.

Since moving into her rooms as an official Hogwarts professor, Harry had been very careful to avoid Snape without being obvious about it. She didn't realize how unsuccessful she had been, but she was not to be blamed for that. 

One does get rather used to being the center of attention and become forgetful about it.

Harry had found it a bit difficult to get used to her new quarters at first, but was settling in by degrees. She now understood what Professor McGonagall had meant when that lady had told her, "You will have the sunrise from that window," meaning the eastern panes, "and the moonrise from that one," meaning the western ones. The sun and moon both rose in the eastern part of the sky, but Harry knew that should she desire sunlight at night, or moonlight during the day, she had only to activate the requisite charmed window on either side of her large main room to provide whatever light she wished. What she did not know was whether Professor Snape had been aware of this romantic feature of the chambers before arranging that they be given to her.

She rather doubted it.

Her current fascination with Wizarding history, which she could trace to Hagrid's story-telling the night Severus had sent her away, was also helping the witch to adjust to her new situation. Harry did not understand why Severus had rejected her so unexpectedly, so she threw herself into understanding the old story. Everyone knew it, everyone had his or her own way of telling it, but it had been first offered to Harry when she was sixteen-years-old and returning to Severus after an absence of many months.

Yawning, the witch stretched into the soft coverlet of her bed, being careful not to disturb the old scroll, and looked up at the bed canopy. It was made of a rich, darkly green netting that featured silver crocheted eyelets in a random pattern over the material. _Star-like, aren't they_?

On a whim, Harry whispered, "Stellaris."

A field of stars suddenly shone down upon her, burning and winking, and saying what Severus could not.

_Gods_!

Harry immediately recognized the pattern of the stars in the field above her: it was the one you might see in the late-Autumn sky if your vantage point was the Astronomy tower.

_It_ was _a date_!

~*~

Severus did not understand why Sirius Black had not yet hounded him out onto the grounds to be devoured by his wolf under the full moon. Ree Potter had been prevailed upon by Albus to leave her lonely existence at Grimmauld Place and return with her family to Hogwarts as the new Defense Against the Dark Arts Professor after Christmas, Bill Weasley having grown restless in that position almost at once, and desirous of rejoining his sister and fellow curse-breaker, Virginia, in the Orkneys.

It was difficult, seeing Miss Potter at staff meetings, difficult, watching her graceful movements during meetings of the Dueling Club, just this side of impossible, falling inadvertently astride of her in the corridors—devastating, raising his head in passing to find her regarding him as she glided to a stop before him.

"May I be of assistance, Professor Potter?"

"I wanted to ap—"

"Mr. Finch-Fletchley, do _not_ wave your wand in that manner. Forgive me, you were saying?" Severus had asked the woman just that morning. _She still looks pale_ , he thought, feeling the heaviness of guilt settle over his chest, and ignoring it. _I will have a professional relationship with Miss Potter, and nothing more. It is the only appropriate option, given the circumstances._

"Would you have a moment to—"

"Jada Monroe, do not _dare_ to do that again."

"Perhaps this isn't a good—"

"Nonsense. What do you—William Lestrange, why—"

The hallway had dissolved from the interclass chaos to silence.

"That's better," Potter said.

"What did you _do_ , Harry?" _Damn_!

Ignoring the Potions master, she replied quickly, "I apologize."

"What?"

"I apologize for how . . . awkward it's been since I came to teach. I wanted to know what I could do to make it . . . less awkward."

"You might begin by ceasing to hijack me by time-turner, Professor."

Harry neither confirmed nor denied Snape's attempt to understand how she had moved them out of their previous moment.

"You grow more like Albus every day."

"I know that's not a compliment, sir."

"Perhaps it is."

"Awkward?"

"A compliment."

Harry hung her head abruptly. "Then why won't you, why—"

The soft pad of a finger startled her as it brushed away the single tear threatening to slide down her left cheek. She looked up and the anger that she had found in Severus' eyes the last time they spoke was not present. Its absence gave her the courage to speak.

"I didn't mean it. I didn't mean to move us back like that, or to be a burden, or to upset—"

"Stop," Severus' voice resonated off of the quiet stones of the corridor, its power lying in the timbre and quality of the sounds produced, rather than in any working of magic threaded though its tone.

Harry's expression changed from uncertain to something undecipherable.

"You . . . ," the Potions master began, finding himself unable to finish his thought.

Her tear still quivering on his finger, Severus fought the absurd urge to touch it to his lips and suck it into his mouth. _Why not? I never told her_ that _version of the story_ , he thought selfishly.

"You should not be so careless of your charms, Dark Arts mistress," he mocked gently. "I could do you a damage with such bounty."

"That isn't what you were going to say."

"No."

"Why 'stop'? Isn't my apology good enough for you?"

Coldly, he said, "It is acceptable."

"Fine then, if you'll excuse me—"

"I keep interrupting you."

"Yes. Why is that?"

"Because I do not wish you to walk away."

"But I didn't do that, Professor Snape."

"No, you ran."

Harry's eyes filled with ire—which Severus felt was a vast improvement—and she made to utter an angry retort.

"Please, I am _not_ mocking you, Miss Potter. I behaved badly. I apologize."

"I . . . I accept you—your apology."

_You would accept me, wouldn't you? But that cannot be_. "And I do not accept _yours_ , as it was quite unnecessary."

A smile threatened to overspread the witch's features, and Severus could not permit that. If Harry were to smile at him, he would not be able to . . . continue.

"Well, Professor Potter, if that is all, I have duties to which I'd like to attend. I expect we will meet next Thursday for the practice. Until then, good day to you," the man said, his right hand still carefully holding Harry's tear.

Disappointment crumpled the girl's features, and Severus could hear her unshed tears when she wished him a good week before turning on her heel and rushing down the corridor, which was once again a-bustle with activity.

Her final thought burned in his mind, _"But the stars, you gave me the sun, the moon, and the stars. Why would you do that if you didn't—"_

"Good afternoon, Professor Snape," Remus Lupin called to him, casually reaching for the other man's hand and absorbing his heart-child's tear. "See you at the staff meeting?"

Severus had seen no judgment in Lupin's eyes, but was in no fit state to contemplate its absence. He tried to focus on the other man's figure as he hurried toward Transfiguration with the Fourth-Year Hufflepuffs and Gryffindors. Severus knew that Remus and Sirius had been sharing teaching duties since the beginning of the year when Minerva had retired, and Albus had found that he required their assistance with . . . various tasks.

Severus did not miss his spying days in the slightest.

But he did often wish that his new freedom had not given him so much time to _fail_ to devote to his family. Returning to his chambers, he found that his mother had owled him again, and burnt the letter as a matter of course. He would not dignify that woman's attempts to raise their fortunes and their collapsing ancestral pile by contemplating a marriage into a wealthy Wizarding family. The Snapes were possessed of old blood but little fortune, a situation that had not troubled him much in recent years. 

One didn't need money to live alone, after all, and Severus could see little reason to become the pater familias of his clan. He could not imagine being a father.

And he willed any thoughts of being a husband firmly out of his mind, knowing as he did that he was not fit to love the only woman he ever would.


	15. Epilogue

When Sirius had asked her, all his godchild had told him was, "We're to have a professional relationship." Her answer did not, of course, preclude himself or Remus from continuing their friendship with the man—but Severus had grown increasingly remote, just as Harry had withdrawn in her own way. Severus brewed. Harry read. Neither pastime seemed satisfying to either of them.

"Don't worry, love," Remus reassured him. "Things will get back to normal eventually."

"It just seems odd that Harry's obsessed with a bedtime story."

Remus laughed, replying, "The Unconsummated Marriage" is a love story, you git.

"Since when are blood, guts, and battle part of romance?"

Remus looked at his lover with a significance that took on a hooded quality, and, as might be expected, they forgot to worry about Ree for the littlest of whiles.

~*~

"Brine of a Near Sea? That's just odd," the Girl-Who-Lived told herself, sucking on a sugar quill. But she was not so distracted that she failed to hear the creep of would-be-stealthy feet travel past the boundary of the outer corridor of Gryffindor tower, thanks to the modified Sneak-o-Scope that Fred and George had developed for her.

_Best investment I ever made, that joke shop._

Bringing her Firebolt in for a silent landing just behind the young woman, Harry said, "Good evening, Miss Frazier. And where might _you_ be off to after curfew?"

~*~

Somewhere in one of Hogwarts' corridors, Albus Dumbledore chuckled softly. The Fourth Year students, among others, were finding Professor Potter's first year of instruction most trying.

_Unfortunately, I know of no spell that might cure self-doubt, self-pity, or self-flagellation._

Putting Severus out of his mind and taking a deep breath, the headmaster willed himself to seek out the quiet space of a winter garden, materializing next to the somnolent form of a recumbent young man with troubled features.

_Soon, dear boy. Trust me but a little longer._

When one is, for all practical purposes, immortal, "soon" can be misleading. But Albus told himself that the boy would understand. And if he did not, well . . . .

_I do know several enchantments against an efficacious memory._

**Author's Note:**

> A message from my inner Hermione:
> 
> I just remembered that at some point near the end of this story, I refer to Ginny as "Virginia" rather than "Ginevra." When I wrote this story, no one knew that Ginny's given name was Ginevra, so I've decided to leave my fanon version of her name as a reminder of when canon was so new that many of us were content to fill in its blanks.
> 
> Canon is important to me, but if I went back through all my fic and "fixed" it, I'd go mad.


End file.
